What Lies Within Us
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together. Follows on from 6/01/12: what happened in those unseen weeks?
1. Prologue

**Title: **What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N:** I think that the hand hold, or 'Hand Spoon' as I like to call it (because Christian's hand was, in essence, spooning Syed's hand), was the start of a long process for Christian and Syed as they attempt to put their relationship back on track; it symbolised the fact that they love each other immeasurably, but it also showed the quiet tentativeness of the reconciliation, the fact that they are going to have to let the issues into the open and get to know one another again. They need to rediscover why they loved one another so much; they need to remember what they fought so hard for. And I'm a little bit glad that EastEnders did not show us those vital few weeks onscreen, as it means that I get to have a go at chronicling them. So here it is; my interpretation. And I hope I do them justice.

Many thanks to __**Jenn**for the beta!

* * *

><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Prologue**

x  
>x<p>

At first, the touch is so gentle that Christian himself can barely feel it.

It's like a breath of wind ghosting across his fingertips, the pulsating cold of Syed's knuckle grazing against the skin with a tentativeness that almost pains him. It reminds Christian how much he misses Syed's touch; the brushing of shoulders, the brief contact of fingertips on flesh, reassuring twinges and touches; they were a part of them, who they were, what they wanted to be forever more.

The unbreakable.

The unbreakable that was broken.

He can feel the tiny tremor that runs up Syed's spine as he finally registers the contact; his eyes fix on the sight and feel of Christian's hand against his own, something unreadable flashing over his features. For a brief moment, the breath in Christian's throat catches. His fingertips tremble in the wind, knocking against Syed's knuckles as if they are the doorway to his heart; willing him to let him back in, to open the gateway, to grant him entrance to the only place he has ever really felt fit to call _home_.

What if it's too late for that? What if that moment in the restaurant this morning - the pleading eyes that kicked him in the stomach, every single brick of his defences crumbling under the force that battered relentlessly against its walls – had been his last chance? What if he'd been too scared, too fearful of hurt, too unwilling to risk anymore slivers of his heart, to take the only hand that was ever going to be held out to him?

He knew that he'd done the right thing – or, at least, the logical, reasonable, necessary thing. But here and now, his heart trembling slightly with the cold and the fear as he waits for Syed to do _something_, all he wants is to go back to that moment and fling himself wholeheartedly into that gorgeous uncertainty.

A breath escapes from between Syed's lips, greying the air in front of his face, and then Christian feels movement: the curling inwards of a fist. Perhaps he's trying to pull away. Christian's brain screams at him, wailing in despair: _he doesn't want this_. But then the thumb catches against his, pulling the fingers inwards until Syed's hand is engulfed in the warm cocoon of Christian's palm.

It has barely been a few seconds since he reached outwards in his first tentative touch, but Christian feels as though a million lifetimes have flashed past; a life's worth of words and feelings and unspoken promises flitting between them in a few short moments of contact.

Then Syed looks at him. Looks at him properly: that look that he always used to give him, piercing him through with the dark daggers of his eyes, dredging something up from deep in his core and making him feel as though he is the only person still breathing on earth. Warmth emanates from their joined hands, their heat playing off one another, but Christian can hardly fight the tremble that grips him under that gaze. The wind gusts suddenly, lifting up the flyaway strands of Syed's hair; they're so close, so unbearably close, that Christian feels the tickle of the fibres on his lips, pattering down along the line of his jaw like tiny fingertips.

Syed parts his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out nervously to moisten the flesh before scurrying back between his teeth. The urge to pull him closer strikes Christian heavily in the chest; the need to lean in and kiss and hold and crush and touch and pull them together so that there's not a single breath of wind between them…

He fights it. He has to. He tightens his grip on Syed's hand, squeezing their fingers together – redirecting all that passion and need and want into the least threatening touch that he can give; it's a hug, of sorts.

He doesn't know where he stands. There's something…_something_…but he can't be sure of what it means. There's enough to save, but he doesn't know how much saving is needed. The fragments of their shattered relationship lie strewn around them, the patterns of what they once had etched out in the way the pieces have fallen…but Christian doesn't know how sharp the edges are; whether he dares reach out and touch them, letting them cut his hands to pieces as he forces them into some semblance of what they had been before...or whether he's too scared of the pain.

The glue was always their love – _always_ – and he knows now that that is here. He's tried to kid himself. He's seen Syed try to kid himself. But the further they've tried to move on, the further away from acceptance they have found themselves. It's like there is a cord that joins just beneath their ribs, always tugging them back to this place; wrenching them painfully together with a strength that could only be staved off; never defeated.

He doesn't want to beat it anymore.

He wants this.

Oh God, he wants Syed.

That's all he's ever wanted. He knows that now. He'd risk a thousand wounds if he could only have Syed back for one day. For one minute. For one second.

To hell with reason. What good has it ever done him? It brought him a world of pain and heartache; a sea of troubles, an ocean of hurt, drowning him in emotion and confusion.

But it's one thing saying that. Another thing entirely to quell the panicking voice that's bubbling away somewhere in the depths of his stomach; the unfiltered, raw cry of someone who doesn't know what to do.

A sudden breath brings him crashing back to Earth, his eyes focusing as the light from the streetlamps falls almost hypnotically across Syed's face; he feels Syed's thumb drawing tiny circles across his knuckles; those eyes search his; lips slightly parted, as if trying to find words whilst silently begging to be kissed. It takes all of Christian's strength not to give into that silent plea.

Not now. Not yet.

There has to be words first. There has to be.

But he doesn't know what to say.

Luckily, Syed does.

The words perforate the air, slicing neatly through the silence like a warm knife through butter; quiet, gentle, sincere words, breathed out into the atmosphere, dancing their way through the cold and settling in Christian's ear.

Words that are spoken with eyes as well as tongue.

The right words. The only words that could possibly be uttered. The words that needed to be said.

'_Let's go home_.'

**TBC...**

* * *

><p><strong><strong>_So, this is what we saw on screen (except my little addition at the end) - now it__'s time to move on to what we haven't seen. I hope you approved of this first segment; I hope you felt it was in character, realistic, true to the story that we all love so much. If you have any comments at all, I would love to hear them, as it is criticism and ideas from my readers that really help me to write these boys as well as I can. If not, then I hope you'll keep on reading...and I hope you'll enjoy reading about these boys as much as I love writing them. _


	2. Chapter 1

**Title: **What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **The first 1,000 words or so of this were very difficult; they didn't seem to flow, but, I think, this tied in with the tentative awkwardness that I was trying to portray in the writing itself. There are a lot of issues hanging around that neither of them are ready to face, although they feel the weight of them in every second that they spend together. I tried to explore that tension in this chapter - I wanted it to be almost like they were a new couple, unsure of each other and themselves, only with the weight of experience and history and memory making that awkwardness even more tense. I hope it worked!

Many thanks again to **Jenn **for the beta! *mwah*

* * *

><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 1**

x

x

It feels strange walking into the flat. Over the past few months, Syed has grown accustomed…well, not to the _absence_ of Christian, but to the sensation of something being missing as he crosses the threshold. He's come to expect it; the sense of something being wrong has become so commonplace as to somehow seem _right_.

But, as he pushes the door open and steps inside, he can hear the shuffle of Christian's feet behind him; feel the warm fragments of breath curling around the back of his neck; hear and smell and breathe in the unutterable sense of his presence. He'd forgotten what it's like to feel even partially complete as he walks into this flat. He can't quite understand why, but the overwhelming sense of there being nothing missing at all - the feeling of everything being in place – is terrifying. He can't quite remember how to deal with it.

Unlike the old flat, these four walls have always been very much _theirs_. They bought it, they decorated it and they built a tiny, comforting slice of _them_ in the mad hustle of the world. It had been so odd without Christian – incomplete, as if someone had reached in and wrenched half the flesh from its body. The only way to survive had been to adapt.

And now the missing flesh is back.

Only, to sew it back on, maybe he needs to make fresh wounds.

His arms fold automatically across his chest, the keys playing loudly about the tips of his fingers as Christian shuts the door with a tentative _click_. There is a warmth hanging in the air. He can feel the glare of Christian's eyes on his back; the wobbling gaze of someone who is looking to him for some sort of guidance.

He's never felt so unwise in his life.

In fact, he wants to turn around and bury himself in Christian's chest – hiding deep in the flesh, blotting out all the questions with the gentle _thumpa-thumpa_ of his heartbeat.

He wants to be reassured. More than anything, he wants Christian to stroke his hair and hold his hand and tell him that nothing matters, nothing of the past few months matters one jot because they're here and together and it's right, it's _so_ right, and he forgives him…god, how much he wants to be forgiven.

But he keeps his back straight, shifting on his heel so that he's facing Christian with what he hopes is a confident expression on his face. The muscle along his jaw aches with the effort of keeping his composure; he can feel it twitching at his cheek, disrupting the lines he's so carefully drawn.

"Christian…" the word burns on the tip of his tongue, curling like hot smoke around the inside of his mouth. He's missed saying it. He's missed saying it alone, in this house – with no one to hear it but Christian himself. The privacy of the word; it's like uttering a secret password. It sends an unutterable thrill right through him. It makes him want to say it over and over again, letting the syllables dance across tongue and lips, whispering them into flesh so that the words imprint themselves into the very marrow of Christian's bones…

…no, not yet; definitely not yet.

The key rattles against his twitching fingers, his arms clenching around his chest as if he's holding himself firmly in place.

"Christian…"

"Sy…"

The differing timbres bump clumsily into one another, each sound thrumming with confusion as they clamp their mouths shut in unison. Syed watches as Christian flicks his tongue nervously over his bottom lip; the flash of pink darting through his mind, scrambling the thoughts into a frenzy.

It's an awkwardness that fizzes with an unbidden heat.

A tentative quiet that wraps them in a blanket of unspoken passion.

It's instinct versus logic; standing so near, enclosed in these four walls, all the knowledge that they _shouldn't_ fighting mercilessly against the _want-want-want_ that invades every single nerve ending…

The lack of sound is overwhelming. More excruciating than any words could possibly be. Syed clenches his fist, driving the bluntness of his nails into his palm. One of them is going to have to speak. One of them is going to have to break the heavy silence…because it's screaming words neither of them are really ready to hear.

He swallows hard, catching Christian's eye for a flash of a second – in that moment, the beseeching plea that shines forth from those irises tells him everything he needs to know.

He has to take charge.

Christian is the one who left and, whatever reasons lay behind his leaving, it's like he's a guest in Syed's territory. He can see it in Christian's silhouette; the way he's holding himself, the depth of the hands in his pockets, the tautness of his shoulders, the uncertain, awkward, uncomfortable flutter that shakes his face.

No, Syed is the one who has to decide what to do.

He doesn't want to.

But neither does Christian.

And they can't stay like this forever – a wave of uncertainty crashing against a wall of fear.

Syed takes a deep breath, finally uncrossing his arms and letting them fall limply by his side as he sweeps his gaze across the flat. He takes in each and every corner, as if weighing up the situation (or, at least, giving the impression of decisiveness), before letting his eyes rest on the line of Christian's jaw; tactfully avoiding the mixture of hope-fear-love that's shining from his eyes.

"It's late," the words are nowhere near as solid as he had hoped them to be, a slight tremble clinging to them as they leave his mouth. "We should think about…I mean…we need to decide where we're going to…"

Understanding dawns in Christian's eyes – the unspoken thing, the awkwardness that has hung between them, dissipates slightly now that the topic has been broached. Something about Christian's whole demeanour seems to collapse in on itself, crumbling comfortably and allowing the briefest brush of a smile across his lips.

"Yeah," there's a tremor there, but it's faint, the words thrumming with the confidence that they _can_ do more than stand in silent ineptitude. "We need to think about that."

Syed feels something surging through him: _they're talking…they're discussing…they're not arguing! _For the first time since they stepped over the threshold of the flat, and were forced to face the jagged remnants of the relationship they had somehow managed to ruin so badly, he begins to feel a blanket of comfort wrap around his heart.

They can do this. They can pick up the pieces.

He never stopped loving Christian, but somewhere along the line he had begun to feel that perhaps love wasn't enough. But now, as a tiny smile tugs at the corner of Christian's mouth and bounds with a fervour belying its size onto Syed's chest, he begins to believe that it _is_ enough. They both want it.

The sudden jolt of confidence seems to reconnect the synapses that had shorted out; he feels renewed, alive, able to think coherently despite the thrumming mixture of uncertainty and need that fires through his veins.

"I can take the spare room," it's a decision that jumps out at him from nowhere – he doesn't care where it came from, all he knows is that whatever it is the right thing, for now - he knows it in his bones. "She…I mean…Amira has been sleeping in there and it's full of baby toys, so I think I should probably…"

The decisiveness suddenly dissipates as the elephant in the room decides to stamp his – or her – foot into the proceedings.

_Amira_.

_Yasmin_.

These things are not going to go away: Yasmin is in his life now, and he's never going to let her go. She is imprinted on his heart just as much as Christian is; she's his daughter, his blood, the most precious thing that has ever come out of the dark for him.

He still doesn't know how Christian is going to take to that, especially as Yasmin comes with…

"I don't mind sleeping there. She doesn't bring me out in hives or anything…"

Christian's trying for humorous diplomacy, but it falls flat. Syed's seen the looks exchanged between the two of them; he saw Christian's face in the pub days before when Amira kissed him; he knows that the last thing either of them need is to have any of _that_ intrude on them…at least not now, not their first night back together.

That will come in time – but he doesn't want to face that now.

He's tired.

All he wants is to fall asleep knowing that Christian is under the same roof as him.

Knowing that they have a chance.

Knowing that he loves and is loved and that that's the only thing that matters here, now, in these few fleeting hours before the rest of the world will batter at their doors.

"No," he smiles, tipping himself towards Christian slightly before sliding back – venturing into the territory that hasn't been his for so long he wonders how he ever survived. "You take the main bedroom, tonight. I'll sleep in the spare. I never did like sleeping in a double bed…on my own…no, I mean…I didn't mean that…"

Christian steps forward suddenly as he fumbles over his words, reaching out a hand and ghosting his fingers around Syed's elbow; as if he's holding him in place, reassuring him against the unbidden syllables that are tumbling from his mouth.

"It's okay," he says quietly, almost whispering as they both feel the contact burn through Syed's jacket. For a brief moment, Syed thinks that Christian is going to close the gap between them; he tips his chin upwards, the movement instinctive, baring his lips for the kiss he's sure is going to come. The fingers at his arm tighten…Syed feels his spine stiffen in anticipation…

And then they fall back, their eyes sliding away from each other with murmurs of 'it's late', 'we should sleep' and, then, after a brief moment of awkward silence, a hushed 'goodnight' that sends them scurrying almost sheepishly to their separate rooms.

Syed takes in a breath as he clicks the door shut behind him, resting his back against it for a second and letting hot air push its way from his chest.

They had been so close. Dangerously close.

'Not yet,' his lips form the silent words as he moves from the door, stripping to his underwear before clambering into bed. "Not yet…not yet…"

It's like a mantra, coating his erratic thoughts with a sugary layer of conviction. The darkness seems to close in on him as he draws the sheets to his chest, well aware of the cloying smell of Amira's perfume that hangs in the air. It brings home a million feelings that he can't possible begin to sort through: guilt, anger, affection, annoyance, fear...

…oh god, he is so pathetically scared…that she won't let him see Yasmin, that in finding Christian again he has somehow lost his daughter…

…or, maybe, he will keep hold of that jewel, keep it clamped to his chest where it's supposed to be, but, in that process, he will lose Christian again…

The heavy weight of almost-sleep weighs on his brain, magnifying every fear until it looms over him like a vampire in the night; draining him of his confidence, of his surety, of the very things that he needs to keep his soul afloat.

Things will go wrong and Christian will leave.

Christian will stay and things will go wrong.

He'll never see Yasmin again.

Amira will take her away.

He'll never be able to share the two most precious things in his life – Amira will never let Christian see Yasmin, never, he could see it in her eyes.

Then what? Where would they go from there? Where do they go from here?

He'll always be torn.

Bleeding.

Shattered into a million pieces.

He can't…not again…

The morning will bring with it something far scarier than anything he has faced in trying to rekindle this relationship; everything has led to this point, and now, to have to think beyond that, into the future…

A gentle creaking noise disturbs the thin membrane of his tortured slumber; somewhere in his groggy brain, he realises that the door has been opened, that someone has taken a tentative step into the room and is now leaning against the doorframe.

There's a breath. The sound of a tongue licking nervously against dry lips. The tense thrumming of a question unspoken, waiting to be asked, awaiting an answer…

Syed doesn't make a sound.

Instead, he scoots across the thin stretch of the bed, pressing himself against the wall and pulling the covers with him – leaving a cold space behind him that waits to be filled.

A weight dips down onto the mattress, a warm heat smarting gorgeously against his back as Christian pulls the covers up and over them; there's not enough space for them both, not really, but the heaviness of Christian's arm as it slings across his waist is not something he wants to fight. Not something he'll ever want to fight. He presses his hand onto the fingers that splay across his stomach, shuffling back until they are sandwiched together, slotted against one another in a way that is so immensely awkward yet so utterly, utterly _right_.

He can't smell the perfume anymore. All his senses can register is: _Christian Christian Christian._

There's nothing else in it but comfort. The heat of Christian's chest wraps around him like an electric blanket, pressing down on him until the last vestiges of consciousness are squeezed from his brain.

Before he goes to sleep, however, he feels the tentative press of lips to his hair; the subtle vibrations of words whispered against his scalp.

_I missed you_.

And that's enough.

Tomorrow is a whole other day. He still fears it. He still waits for it to come with dread in his heart. They'll have to face it, when it comes; face it in all its fury.

But that's not now. This is now.

And, for now, this is enough.

**TBC...**

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading! I thought maybe it got a bit sentimental near the end, but Syed himself did say that being in the proximity of Christian and not being able to touch him causes an actual physical reaction, an actual pain. So I felt they needed to touch. I hope you enjoyed, and if you have any comments I would love to hear them! They still have such a long way to go...<em>**  
><strong>


	3. Chapter 2

**Title:**What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **I do know where I'm going with this, but it keeps veering off in different directions. I suppose that's to be expected when you're dealing with such a fraught emotional situation, especially when the characters are not your own and have to conform to the characterisations set out for them by other people. The curse of fanfiction. The characters go where they want to go. Still, it's a slow process our boys are going through, so it's a slow process to write it. This chapter was something that I felt needed to happen. There's a lot of that going on in this fiction. Still, I hope you enjoy it and feel I have done the characters justice. There will be no great, sudden leaps forward in this story; I want it to be as organic and realistic as possible.

Many thanks again to **Jenn **for the beta! *mwah* You are wonderful, my dear!

* * *

><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 2**

xxx

The buzzing of the alarm shatters through the fog of sleep, reaching through his ear and dragging him forcefully from the comfortable haze. Christian feels his whole body clench in protest, his limbs twitching around the warm bundle that curls snugly in the crook of his arm. The heat, radiating through from the gently thrumming body pressed against his chest, is almost enough to block out the shrill tones and send him back into unconsciousness. It isn't as if the noise is particularly intrusive – it's faint, filtering through from another room, just about audible through the wall that blocks its path…

…his eyes fly open suddenly, his whole body freezing against the realisation of where he is, what he's doing and just who the fiery, quietly snuffling body in his arms belongs to.

A part of him wants to obey the urge to stay where he is, to just luxuriate in the moment of extreme simplicity that Syed's serene and sleeping form presents to him. He can almost cocoon himself in the warmth, blocking them both off from the rest of the world and refusing to let any of the snapping issues break through their comfortable casing. He doesn't want reality to break through. He doesn't want to confront the fact that they have a future to face, a future which rears up over the fragility of the now and threatens to stop his heart with the terror of it.

But the alarm continues to call out to him, reminding him of the fact that he does have a future; he does have a life outside the door; he has things he needs to do. He promised Jack that he'll work today – and he owes him, considering how easy it would have been to kick him out on his arse when he came back grovelling for a job – and, if anything, this presents the ideal chance to bring everything that happened last night into the real world.

They can't luxuriate in blissful isolation forever. There are things they need to face, issues they need to confront; a physical reality that they need to reconcile with the abstract inclinations of their hearts.

Syed stirs suddenly in his arms, sucking in a breath that catches in his nose; a nervous smile twitches at Christian's lips as he looks down at him, his heart aching as the younger man wrinkles his nose and snuffles tightly into the warmth of Christian's chest. He can't decide whether Syed looks like a small child or a sleeping puppy. Either way, he can feel the singing in his ribcage, urging him to imprint this moment on his memory and keep hold of it – keep hold of it for whenever life makes him feel as though he can't do this anymore.

He files it in the compartment entitled: _Things To Fight For_.

Because, somewhere in the big, black gulf of that time they'd both rather forget about, he managed to lose sight of that. And he needs to remember it. This time he won't forget it. He can't. He doesn't want to lose this.

Tentatively, he eases his arm out from under the warm weight, relishing each last contact of skin on skin as he slides his hand across Syed's spine. He doesn't want to break the gorgeous veil of sleep that enshrouds the man by his side, doesn't want to wrench him into the word of uncertainty that he's suddenly found himself in. He's given him enough uncertainty. It makes his heart throb a little with the guilt of it – it makes him want to draw down a protective shield and prevent anymore uncertainty from getting through.

For a brief moment, he hates himself.

But then he shakes it off, scrubbing a hand across the stubble-lined skin of his face as he forces those bubbling emotions back where they belong. He can't think like that. That won't get them anywhere.

Hauling himself from the bed, he casts one last look at his sleeping – is it lover? he isn't sure anymore – before tiptoeing from the room. Everything he needs to do filters through his brain, ordering itself swiftly into steps to make things as simple as possible. It's the only thing that stops him curling up in a ball in the corner and howling until reality goes away.

His first goal is to turn off the alarm that's still blaring from the main bedroom. He does that swiftly, reaching out with a desperation that doesn't quite fit the situation.

His second goal is to get dressed. Many of his clothes are still in the suitcase that's propped messily by the couch; he pads along the corridor that connects the main bedroom to the living space, instinctively turning his head to catch a glimpse of the still-sleeping Syed as he crosses in front of the second bedroom. His brain takes a few moments to process what he sees – Syed is curled tightly on the other side of the bed, the pillow hugged to his chest as if there's something missing from his arms – before heading onwards, grasping wildly at a spare tracksuit before pulling it on.

He probably needs a shower, but he tells himself he doesn't have time. It's definitely _nothing_ to do with the fact that he can still smell Syed on his skin. Because that would be pathetic.

His third goal is to…

…no, there's something he needs to do first. In a sudden burst of inspiration, he grabs a pen and tears off a piece of paper from the book that sits near the phone; the words flowing from the nib of the pen wrestle a little with the emotions that cling to his chest, his fingers hovering over the page as language fails him completely. Everything he can think of is either too much or not enough.

_Shit_.

He scratches absent-mindedly at the corner of the page, closing his eyes for a brief moment before writing; shutting off his brain and putting a few blocks on his heart, scribbling down the first words that come to his mind before pulling back and setting the pen down.

Just as he's about the stand up, however, he finds himself wrenched backwards….and, before he can stop himself or come up with a million reasons why it isn't a good idea, he adds a few ragged 'x's to the bottom of the page.

The paper crinkles slightly in his fist as he draws his coat over his shoulders, the corners digging uncomfortably into his palm as he heads back to the room and sets it carefully on the pillow beside Syed's head.

He can imagine what it would be like to wake up and find himself alone in the bed; he can imagine the panic, the sinking feeling as the bottom falls out of his stomach, the heartache as he convinces himself that the tentative reconciliation of the night before was nothing but a fantasy…

He knows that he's done a lot of things to hurt Syed in the past. And, whatever reasons he had, however many times Syed has hurt him in return, it's not something he has ever wanted.

He strokes a finger ever so gently across Syed's slack jaw, revelling in the gentle scratching of stubble on his fingers before sweeping a stray lock of hair behind Syed's ear. A tiny smile once again dances on his lips. Oh god, he wants this forever.

It's with much regret that he pulls himself away; wrenching himself from the room, grabbing the duffel bag that droops against the sofa and sweeping out of the door with a force that propels him violently down the street.

It's easier to be fast; the quick pace of his feet slows down the frenetic speed of his thoughts.

He thinks about what he suggested in the letter – hoping against hope that Syed will agree with him, will take what he said on board and will be willing to act upon it. It's not going to solve much, but it's all he can come up with. The situation needs to move forward. They need to act, or to at least set the wheels of action in motion.

Anyway, it's something they never got to do before. The unconventional nature of their relationship, or at least the way that it began and grew, meant that it was an experience they never had – a 'normal' step that they seemed to leap right over. And that, when Christian comes to think about, is one of the biggest regrets he has (after the pain, of course).

He wishes they'd had that.

But, he guesses, that was just another abnormality in their relationship which led to this whole mess in the first place…

His train of thought is cut short as someone crashes into his side, catching his shoulder and sending them both veering wildly off course; Christian turns with the momentum, planting his feet firmly to stop himself from falling.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't…" he stops suddenly as the other person looks up, his vocal cords seizing as he registers the tired lines of Zainab's face. The silence hangs awkwardly in the air; he can feel it pressing between them, keeping them firmly at arms length whilst, somehow, preventing them from turning on their heels and scurrying away. Every instinct of Christian's body is telling him to flee. He isn't in the mood for this now. He doesn't have the energy. He can't deal with it.

He's dealt with a lot of hate in his time. The very nature of who he is has made him an open target for abuse. But he's never really let anyone see just how much Zainab's hatred - the contempt, the way she would look at him as though he was something less than human – hurt him. It is like a knife slicing through him.

Because he can see Syed in those eyes.

Zainab speaks first, quietly ushering them away from the grating pitch of silence.

"Syed didn't come home last night," she's not looking at him; in fact, she's fiddling with the bag in her hand, her fingers playing distractedly over the material. Christian feels his mouth go dry as he mimics her evasiveness, folding his arms across his chest and focusing on an area just above her collar.

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know where they stand.

She thanked him – Boxing Day, after the fire – she actually thanked him. There was gratitude in her eyes; some semblance of the conflicted affection that had previously existed between them.

They'd got on, once. He remembers that now. They'd had their differences, but he'd enjoyed their friendship. He'd enjoyed their slanging matches, a brick wall meeting an immoveable object, and the fiery, affectionate exchanges that would follow.

He misses it.

But there's also so much he will never forgive her for.

There's so, so, _so_ much that still hurts.

"Yeah," it comes out with a defensive edge, his eyes flashing as he dares her to protest – he's not even said anything, but the implication is clear in the tone that shudders through the syllable.

Zainab understands. She looks up, catching his eye for a brief moment before dropping her eyes. Christian feels a twinge of sympathy; she really is a shadow of the strong, pig-headed woman who made his life so difficult for so long.

It's a strange concoction of emotions that bubbles in his stomach. His heart aches slightly for all that she's gone through…but his mind scrolls through memories of all the times she has hurt him, all the times he's felt his heart crack because of her, all the times that he's looked in her eyes and seen a contempt so powerful that he's almost begun to believe it himself…

"There's some clothes," she's talking again, babbling almost, as if she doesn't know what to say…and, even if she did, she wouldn't know how to say it. "Syed's, I mean, in the house. He'll need them. I'll get Tamwar to bring them over. Or maybe I'll bring them over."

Christian stares. He doesn't know what this means. It's as if her words are trying to say something…_more_…than what they're actually saying.

If he didn't know better, he would think that there was something that was relatively akin to acceptance in her eyes.

Or, at least, it's something that isn't quite disapproval. And that's a step in a direction he'd always thought was blocked to them.

"Right," he swallows hard, tripping over his own tongue; not for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, he really doesn't know how to find the words. "Yes, that'll be…good. Thanks."

She flashes him the quickest of smiles – and he feels his confidence rise.

"You could always stay for dinner if you…"

"No," she looks at him then, properly, and Christian can't help but flinch under the fire of her gaze. "No."

He feels his hackles rise, protestations bubbling from his chest, flames licking from his eyes as he opens his mouth to argue…but then her eyes change, the fire doused with the same suddenness with which it appeared.

"Not yet," she whispers softly, cutting him off. "Maybe…sometime…but no, I can't. I just…"

And Christian feels himself folding inwards; throwing water on the flames that had licked upwards from his heart, melting slightly as he realises that she's right.

They need time.

They all need time.

"I just wanted to check that Syed has everything he needs," Zainab continues, fingers once again fascinated with the corner of her bag. "You know…his clothes…"

Christian smiles tightly, the tiniest spark of mirth twitching at the corner of his mouth. It mixes with resignation; resignation, affection, and a few more ingredients that don't quite work together.

"I'm not sure he has everything he needs," he's running with the metaphor; it's easier. "There're a few more things I think you could bring for him. If you could?"

He catches her eye. She understands. At least, he thinks she understands. It sends a tiny thrill running through him; this mutual understanding between the two of them, bringing them together over the one thing that should have brought them together a long time ago.

"I can, if he needs it…" she bites her lip, casting a glance in the general direction of the house where Syed is (he hopes) still sleeping, before turning around with a _look_ in her eyes. "Because I need to know that he's okay, and if he isn't, then…"

"I'm trying my best," there it is; it's out there; that's all he can do. "I'll always try my best."

She looks at him somewhat sceptically; as if she wants to say something, make a sharp comment or lash at him with that whip of a tongue. Christian suddenly finds himself bracing for an argument, his shoulders tensing, his mind preparing a thousand answers that he can throw her way in retaliation. But, somehow, she manages to bite her tongue.

"I suppose that's all you can do," she tuts quietly to herself, drawing the coat tightly around her before turning on her heel. As she goes, Christian knows that it's not quite enough for her; that she doesn't necessarily approve, but she's diplomatically refraining from telling him what she really thinks.

Christian is thankful for that.

Thankful, but not exactly happy. She doesn't think he can do this. She still doesn't think he's enough.

He's not sure if he is, either. He's never felt less capable of being what Syed, Zainab and the rest of the damned world seems to need him to be. But he's not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that. Not yet. Not like this.

This is a small-step thing. He knows that. He can't even think about repairing things with Zainab until he's somehow managed to patch things up with Syed.

Syed is his priority.

And that brings him right back to the present; back to the letter he left on the pillow, back to the suggestions, back to the uncertainty that is rearing up right in front of his eyes.

He can barely stand it.

He loves him so much.

_Oh God, I hope that's enough. _

It's with this thought that he turns back to his journey, flexing his fingers tightly against his sides…

…and, as they curl into nervous fists at his side, he's never been more thankful that he works in a boxing gym.

xxx

**TBC...**

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><p>Thank you for reading! If you have any comments, of any nature, I would encourage you to leave them. They really do help with the writing process. If not, then I hope you enjoyed it and I hope you keep reading! Thank you once again.<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

**Title:**What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **Sorry once again for the delay, this one has undergone several revisions. I wanted to pitch it right - the awkwardness, their feelings for one another, their issues, a reconnection, sexual tension, and a timidity that is only natural given what has happened over the few months leading up to this. It's very odd writing a 'first date' scene for two characters who have been together for so long and been through so much; so I've had to try and strike a balance. I hope I've pitched it right.

**Additional Note:** some of the lines in Christian's letter had strike-throughs (as in corrections he'd made, to show his thought process) but FF would not support that format. So I've deleted them and just left the letter without those additions.

Thanks once again to **Jenn** - she's wonderful and lovely and a very good beta. Give her cookies!

* * *

><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 3**

xxx

Syed shuffles his feet nervously against the pavement as he waits outside the Argee Bhajee, his whole body twitching impatiently in the biting wind; his collar, which is drawn up against the cold, acts as a shield against something more internal than the biting winds, covering the bare skin of his neck as he swallows awkwardly.

It's been a long time since he's done something like this. In fact, he's not even sure whether he's ever done it properly at all. Although it feels like the right thing, he can't shake the nerves that are shaking him right to the marrow of his bones; grabbing hold of his throat and jerking his head until all he can hear is the pounding of blood in his ears.

A date.

He's been on a few, barely-serious dates in his time, most of which ended quickly and decisively, but this is _more_ than that. This is so much more.

This is _Christian_.

They never had the chance to date; they never had the chance to fall in love gradually over a soppy meal, to get to know each other's hopes and dreams in a social setting, to ease their way gradually into the realisation that they couldn't live without one another. Instead, they'd fallen for each other in secret moments and clandestine, guilt-ridden meetings – their hopes and dreams had been helplessly entangled in the sense of hopelessness and pain that had strangled those first precious months together.

Syed's heart had jerked in terror as he had woken up to an empty bed, the pillow not even clinging to the last few remnants of Christian's warmth. It had been a moment of blind panic that momentarily shut off his senses; and then he'd seen the note that had brushed against his cheek like a written kiss.

_Sy_ (something had thrummed in Syed's chest on seeing that nickname again, echoing against his skull in Christian's distinctive timbre)_, _

_I promised Jack I'd go into the gym to sort some things about. I didn't want to wake you. _

_I think we should go out. Tonight. Wherever you want to go – just go out, do this thing properly. I'd like to get to know you properly again. I really want this to work. I promise._

_Give me a call, tell me what you think or where you wanna go. This is totally up to you, no pressure, I promise. _

_Christian_

_xxx_

A tiny smile plays on Syed's lips as he scrolls the hastily scribbled words through his mind, hearing each one in the deep, yet tremulous, tones of Christian's voice. He can hear them being said, hear the process as words filtered through from brain to pen, feel the tentativeness that thrums through every single letter. It makes his soul soar whilst simultaneously breaking his heart – Christian is strong, confident, proud; and to feel the nerves trembling from every inch of him is enough to put a crack straight through Syed's heart.

"Sy?"

Syed is wrenched away from his thoughts by that familiar syllable in that familiar voice; he looks up, his heart clenching in both fear and excitement as he sees Christian walking towards him. His footsteps are slow – Syed notices this first, his eyes fixing on his feet before his face – as if he's thinking too hard, as if he's trying to work out a plan of action in his head.

For a brief moment, Syed feels like this is a military campaign rather than a date. A flare of anger spits inside of him, his jaw clenching tightly. This is supposed to be spontaneous, nice, a chance for them to do what they never did before – a chance for them to rebuild by fixing the things that were wrong from the very beginning.

He doesn't want to feel like the enemy.

But then he looks up, hoping to catch Christian's eye and communicate the hurt that's flickering inside of him – and the _look_ that Christian is giving him, his eyes seemingly trained on every inch of him at once, drinking him in desperately as if he's worried that this is his last chance to look at him like this...

He's expecting to fail.

Christian Clarke is unsure of himself.

And Syed feels himself melt.

There's a battle going on inside of Christian – Syed realises then that Christian sees _himself_ as the enemy.

A few more steps - steps that seem to thrum through the pavement and into Syed's own feet - and Christian is standing in front of him. The time for thinking is up. Syed realises that he doesn't know what to do: what do you possibly say to the man you've been with for eighteen months (and been in love with for two and a half years) on the occasion of your _first ever date?_ Especially in these circumstances. Especially following so much hurt.

He knows that he is opening and closing his mouth in a decidedly less-than-intelligent fashion. He can't help it. Especially as he can see the same awkward timidity in every inch of Christian's body; he can see him turning things over in his mind, indecision shining from his eyes, his lips parting ever so slightly as if he's not sure whether or not he should touch, whether he should lean in, whether he should swallow all sense of rationality and close the gap that he never closed last night…

A hand suddenly presses insistently on Syed's arm. Finger close lightly, yet urgently, around his bicep; it's not pulling him in so much as steadying Christian, as if the touch is giving him the certainty and impulsiveness to do what he needs to do. Syed can feel his head tipping back a fraction, catching Christian's gaze in a silent question (or is it invitation?) before Christian leans in slowly and presses the most chaste of kisses to the side of Syed's mouth.

Syed's eyes shut for a second as he luxuriates in the familiar sensation of lips on lips. It's not particularly passionate or even romantic; it's closed, light, tentative; it's fearful even, a test of the waters; half of Christian's mouth is not even catching his own…

…and yet it's like he's uncovering something that he hadn't even realised he'd lost.

He hasn't kissed Christian since that day in November, almost two months ago now, when it had all gone wrong. It hits him like a fist in his gut.

That's a long time. That's too long.

As Christian pulls away quickly, dropping his hand to his pocket and fixing his gaze on the floor like a five year old whose done something questionable, Syed wonders how he ever managed to convince himself that he could live without it. Somehow, somewhere along the lines, this thing that was once so familiar had hidden itself deep in his brain, burrowing away to protect himself from the ache of memory.

It's hit him now, in a wave of recollection – this thing that is so right, so familiar and yet, now, so distant and alien.

It's exciting.

It's also terrifying.

It takes a few seconds before he realises that he's standing with his mouth half open, his whole body frozen in place as if he's waiting for time to reverse and the contact to happen all over again. A tiny flush creeps onto his cheeks as he loosens his spine and clears his throat pointedly. Christian looks up, catching his eye, and, for a single moment, Syed makes sure that he knows that he did the right thing.

He doesn't let it linger though.

They can think properly when they're inside; thought happens best when its not in the process of freezing to death.

"Shall we go in, then?" he buries a hand into his pocket for warmth, gesturing awkwardly towards the entrance with his trapped arm. "I booked us a table."

Christian glances up nervously, as if he still can't quite believe that Syed has brought him _here_ of all places. For a split second, Syed thinks that Christian is going to refuse to come in – but, instead, he smoothes his features, swallowing hard before nodding decisively.

As they push open the door and walk in with a confidence that doesn't ring true for either of them, Syed feels the brush of a hand against his own. It's not a hand hold, not by a long way, but the tips of Christian's fingers tickle against his knuckles and then his palm, their hands knocking softly together as they are led to their seats. Christian is making it seem as though it's accidental, their arms bumping against one another as a direct result of their proximity and their movement…but he knows that it's more. He can feel the intention running through it.

He doesn't know whether it's for him or for Christian himself, this need to touch, but he's still grateful for it.

Even as they sit down and order, they don't really speak – pointless banter seems a bit…well…pointless at this stage, and neither has the courage to break through the defensive wall that has built up around the deeper issues. However, Syed makes a point of brushing his knee against the side of Christian's leg, nudging it to the side until their legs are slotted around one another beneath the table. It's the touch that he wants, the touch that is both very open and very private, hidden by the table but willingly expressed in a room full of people.

More importantly, willingly expressed in a room full of people who he has no doubt will report back to his family.

He makes sure to address the waiters by name as they bring the food to the table; flashing a quasi-confident smile over the steaming plates; resting his hand just close enough to Christian's for the tip of his forefinger to brush pointedly against his wrist…

"Sy."

Halfway through their main course, that one syllable fractures through the grinning façade – slamming him to the ground with a force that makes his head spin.

"You don't need to do this."

Syed opens his mouth instinctively, the words 'do what?' hovering briefly at the tip of his tongue before something pushes them to one side. It's as if his vocal cords are refusing to lie anymore. As if his body is refusing to let him say anything else that he doesn't mean. He's grateful to it for that.

"I do."

Christian's picking at his food, turning it over with his fork as his fingers twitch near Syed's hand. Syed wants to reach out and grab them, pinch at the tips like Christian did when he came back…sitting on the bed, just about ready to spill their guts and let everything fall to the wayside…

…he's not going to let any interruptions get in the way. Not this time. Not ever again.

"I want them to know that we're -" he can't quite say the word 'together', as that suggests that something is complete, and he's not quite sure it is yet " – getting things back on track with each other."

"So why not just tell them?" Syed can hear the faintest hint of tired sarcasm in Christian's voice, but it's masked by something else – timidity, regret – and he can almost see Christian attempt to gulp the words back into his throat after saying them.

He guesses Christian has some kind of right to be wary. But that doesn't mean he wants to hear it. And, against his better judgement, he feels something within him bristle – not in anger so much as in fear that maybe this can't be fixed.

"I'm sorry," Christian sets down his fork and puts his fingers nervously to his lips, cutting off the anxiety that's bubbling in Syed's throat. "I didn't mean…" he takes a breath, closing his eyes as he exhales. Syed knows that look. He realises that he's missed it. This whole thing, it's like he's getting to relearn each one of Christian's ticks and tells – it's like listening to a song that he was first taught as a child. The rhythm is there; he just needs to sort out the jumble of words in his head.

Suddenly, instinct seems to thrum down through his spine: his muscles loosening and contracting of their own accord, his arm shooting forward, his fingers parting around Christian's fingers before closing tenderly. His thumb brushes in tiny circles on the back of Christian's hand, sweeping his fingerprints across the skin as if he can imprint the marks into it forever.

Christian looks up, his other hand dropping from his mouth to the table, opening up his face as his fingers mimic Syed's – curling inwards, looping through and around, squeezing gently.

They lock eyes for a moment; Syed smiles, the tiniest of grins flashing across his features and drawing a similar twitching from Christian's lips.

And, suddenly, it all becomes a tiny bit easier.

"So, Jack took you back at the gym?"

"Yeah," a sheepish look creases Christian's features. "Not without a fair bit of grovelling on my part, though."

Syed grins properly then, leaning his weight on his free arm, the half eaten plate of food forgotten by his elbow as he eases himself into the light-heartedness of the conversation.

"Sucking up to the boss, eh?"

"Never had any complaints," that look is sly, Syed is sure of it; a slight twitching of the eyes in his direction, a flash of naughtiness coming from somewhere within them. Syed expects it to make him feel nervous – but, instead, he feels a tiny fluttering in his stomach, working it's way up through his throat and dancing on his tongue.

"No, you wouldn't have," he's enjoying this. It's not the most subtle of banter, but it's there – tripping easily on his tongue, the flirtation trickling from this throat; he feels like a ventriloquist revisiting an old skill, conjuring up the tricks and techniques that had once given him everything.

"And _I_ hear that you're thinking of getting a stall in the market," Syed's stomach drops a little as Christian broaches a subject that is a little too near to the serious issues for his liking – Christian clearly feels the tension, his fingers tightening around Syed's own reassuringly as he continues: "You know I like it when you're all windswept and tousled."

Syed raises his gaze, meeting Christian's eyes to gauge what's going on beneath the veneer; he can see something churning away in there, but it's not something that's frightening. It's something that they need to discuss, he knows that, but Christian's easy banter reassures him that its something that can be accepted and dealt with. It's something that can be worked through. Christian can do that, if he can – so he squeezes back on Christian's fingers, his heart filling a little as he meets the look that pours from Christian's eyes.

Suddenly, he doesn't want to be here.

He lets go of Christian's hand, calling the waiter over and negotiating their bill with a haste that surprises Christian – Syed can see the confusion in the other man's eyes as he settles up, quickly handing over the cash before rising from his seat and grabbing once again for Christian's hand.

The journey back to the flat, however, seems to be over quicker than he thought it would be – very soon, they're back in the flat with the door closed, and Syed realises that he hasn't really thought this through.

All he wanted was to be out of the restaurant, to be _here_, with Christian, in their own four walls – but he hadn't really thought beyond that. He hadn't felt the need to. The ease of their banter had lulled him into a comfortable place, a place he had feared he would never find again, and all he could think at that moment was that he wanted to be alone with him.

With Christian.

With the man he loved and still loves and will always love.

There's a look in Christian's eye, an uncertainty mixed with desire, a rational cry of 'we shouldn't do this' mingled with a hunger that Syed has seen oh-so-many times in the past.

And Syed wants him. He's missed him so much; the banter, the looks, the company, and the touches. All of the touches.

His whole body is thrumming with the need, but he can't. Not now. Not yet. He just can't. They can't. They shouldn't.

He licks his lips, shoving his hands in his pockets as if somehow that will keep them place.

"Christian, I…"

"Sy, we should…"

They're stumbling over each other now like a pair of teenagers, confused and uncertain and a little bit at a loss for what to do. Syed would think it was a pretty pathetic set of circumstances…if he didn't have other, more pressing matters on his mind.

"Maybe," Christian's voice breaks through the mess; strong, somehow, yet wavering slightly between them. "We should wait."

"Yeah," he's nodding, at least he thinks that's what his head is doing - he's not quite sure he's in control of his body anymore.

"Just for a bit. Not forever, but…" Christian flounders slightly, urging Syed to catch him before he falls.

"'Til it's right?"

"Yeah…'til we're sorted."

"Or at least, a bit more sorted than we are now."

"That's it," Christian nods, his hands shoved tightly in his jacket pockets as his head bobs with a ferocity that doesn't match the situation. "You okay with that?"

"Of course," Syed's beginning to feel a bit like a nodding dog. "I mean, it's sensible, right?"

"We don't wanna rush."

"No."

"So we're agreed that we wait?"

"Yeah. We're agreed."

That seems to put a seal on the conversation; the litany of hurried agreements and promises hovering in the room around them.

And, somewhere deep down, Syed had always known what would happen when the last echoes of those promises filtered away in the air; he'd always known that this night could only end with them wrapped around each other, kissing and holding and touching as though their very sanities depend upon it...

**TBC**

**x**

**x**

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><p>I hope you enjoyed! If you have any comments, I'd love to hear them; they always help with the writing process. If not, then i hope you keep reading and keep (hopefully) enjoying this story!<p> 


	5. Chapter 4

**Title:**What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **These chapters get harder to write each and every time - and this was horrifically difficult. It's taken me short sharp bursts over quite a few days to get it done. Because this is the _big moment_ in the grand scheme of this fic, so I wanted to get it as right as possible. Keeping the boys in character throughout this was my main concern, and making the action and the interaction realistic was something I really strove to achieve. So, here it finally is. I hope it works for you all.

Many many thanks and loves and hugs and cookies to **Jenn **for the beta. You are the epitome of awesome, my dear.

* * *

><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 4**

xxx

Christian isn't sure who made the first move – to be fair, it was probably a half and half thing, two opposing poles breaking free of their restraints at exactly the same time – but within half a second of Syed's lips being smashed against his own, he realises that he doesn't really care.

Arms curl around him, one around his waist and the other twisting behind his neck, pulling him closer, crushing his mouth messily down onto the surging mass of teeth and tongue that Syed has become. It's as if Christian's hands are out of his control; they feed themselves around Syed's middle, working underneath the hem of his jacket to get as close to the skin as they possibly can. He knows that he's clawing, digging his fingers into the shirt as if he can burrow his nails through it to the bear flesh beneath, but he doesn't care.

He's missed this.

He's missed this so much.

In the corner of his mind, a little voice tells him that they should be waiting – the echoes of their last conversation ring in his ears, along with the knowledge that they were probably right in what they were saying – but that voice is smothered by the pounding of blood in his ears, by the husky huff of Syed's breath on his skin and by the wail of _wantneedmoreplease_ that floods through his skull.

The hand that was wrapped around his neck is now burrowed down the back of his jacket, tugging insistently on the material, coaxing Christian to momentarily release his arms from Syed's waist and shrug it from his shoulders. Clothes, Christian realises, have become nothing more than an annoying barrier to skin; a wall of infuriating fakery, stubbornly blocking the route to the flesh that is his by right.

A growl works its way up from his throat as Syed pulls away from his lips, shucking his own jacket and letting it fall messily to the floor. Christian doesn't need anymore encouragement to shed his clothes, nor does he wait for Syed to do it for him - he wrenches the top up and over his head, baring his torso so that Syed's searching hands can find the flesh that they've been wantonly looking for.

Syed fights for his mouth, moving in to try and close the gap between them - but Christian leans back, luxuriating in the keening sound that vibrates the air between them as he grabs a handful of fabric in his fingers and tugs the shirt away from Syed's body. Syed's arms get tangled in their haste to divest themselves of all barriers; for a brief second they're united in the fight to free him from the confines of his clothing…and then it's gone, dumped on the ever-growing pile of discarded garments as their mouths crash together again, each seeking out his own pleasure.

Somehow, they manage to stumble towards the bedroom – Syed's hands guiding Christian so that he doesn't back himself into the doorframe – and fall onto the bed, a mess of flailing limbs as they crumple around one another. Syed's left leg is hooked awkwardly around Christian's knee, his elbows bracketing Christian's head as he mouths at any bare skin he can find. His mouth hits the pulse-point in Christian's neck, teeth grazing the skin with a ferocity that isn't quite in control of itself – Christian closes his eyes, a primal noise stuttering up from his lungs as grips Syed's hair and presses down on his head.

Christian's thought are clearer than they have been for a very long time; the babble of nervous, frightened voices that have skittered through his mind these last few days are silenced beneath the force of the blood in his veins, his brain overtaken by the insatiable instinct to move and keep moving and get as close as he possibly can…

He's spent so much time thinking. It feels good not to think about anything – it feels good to just be here, now, and to be doing what he's doing…with Syed.

Because this is something he can do.

Sex is something he can do.

He may not know what the future holds, or how to make things right, or how to bring their relationship back to the way it was before it all went wrong (or, indeed, how to fix the things that were always wrong from the very beginning), but he knows what he's doing here. And it feels so natural and right and instinctive that all other thought is chased from his head, in favour of the most basic of all his urges.

Catching Syed's wrist in a firm grip, he somehow manages to flip them over, shuffling them up the mattress so that they're not bent uncomfortably over the edge of the bed – he can feel fingers scrabbling at the cord of his trousers, tearing at the knot as a hand pushes its way down past his waistband to palm at the flesh underneath. The touch is like a jolt of electricity: his body stiffens, lifting up from Syed so he can shove his tracksuit bottoms and pants down and over his feet in one go.

By the time he settles himself back on top of the warm body beneath him, he sees that Syed has done the same – a tiny part of him wants to share a smile, or a wink, or a knowing look, but all he can do is press downwards and crush his lips somewhere in the general vicinity of Syed's mouth.

Because this is totally about the physical.

In some weird way, it's almost like the first time: the physicality over everything else, the need to screw and fuck and do nothing else and think about nothing else and to hell with all the consequences.

Without untwisting his mouth from Syed's, he scrabbles for the bedside cabinet, yanking open a drawer with less-than-coordinated fingers and rummaging about inside. His hand fumbles into every corner, tripping over itself as Syed surges up, cutting off almost every coherent thought in Christian's brain as he presses their naked crotches together…

…_almost_ every thought.

It hits him like a bucket of cold water over his whole body. His spine seems to freeze, his limbs locking as his lips pull away from Syed with a frantic _pop_.

And, suddenly, he's thinking again.

"Christian?" he only just registers Syed propping himself up on his elbow, a look of confusion crinkling his flushed features. "What's wrong?"

"We don't have any."

Christian can feel his whole body shrinking in on itself; the thudding in his ears is quietening down, receding back to reveal the shrieking fears that he's tried so hard to drown out.

"I don't…"

"Condoms," he shuffles backwards, raising his cooling flesh away from Syed's body. "We don't have any condoms."

"Well no, we hadn't used them in…" from the corner of his eye, Christian can see a light dawning in Syed's irises.

It isn't a happy light.

And Christian wants to curl up in a corner and die.

Shit. He forgot how much thinking hurt.

"You need them."

It isn't a question, it's a statement of fact – a statement of fact that Syed clearly realises he should have known already. Christian can hear the deeper issues thrumming through every single word. He can feel the sense of betrayal. He can hear the disapproval.

The memory of everything that has happened, the babble of thought and guilt and anger that it produces, is the biggest turn-off he has ever experienced. He's never felt so un-aroused in his entire life.

Silently, he rolls to the side, bending one knee to his chest as he scrubs a hand across his face. One sock is hanging limply from his foot, half-on and half-off; he reaches down, grabbing the hem and tugging it back up to his ankle. It's not much, but it does something to abate the vulnerability of his nakedness – there's no shields here, no walls, no mask he can put on to somehow cover up what's really going on. He can't run away. And that terrifies him.

He hears, rather than sees, Syed pull himself into a seated position, supporting himself up on one arm while the other one reaches out to rest gently on Christian's shoulder.

The touch burns.

"Christian, we don't have to stop, we can do something else, we don't…"

"Stop it, Sy," he shrugs the fingers away from his skin, warding himself away from the falsity which he's sure is behind the touch. He can't deal with it. Not now. Not ever again. He doesn't want to hear the words that Syed thinks he needs to hear – he's not a child, however he acts sometimes, and he doesn't want Syed to lie to him anymore.

"Stop what?"

Christian can't quite tell whether or not the confusion is truthful or all part of some deeper, elaborate delusion. Either way, he feels himself bristling; a part of him wants to stop the acid that's rising in his throat, but it's too strong for him to hold back. He doesn't have the energy to fight it. He hasn't had the energy for a while.

"Stop pretending that it doesn't bother you."

Syed stiffens beside him. From the corner of his eye, Christian can see him cast his gaze downwards, shielding his face from Christian's gaze as if he's ashamed of what he might find there.

"It doesn't."

"Doesn't it?" he doesn't know why he's being so mean about this – his words are like venom, he can feel them smarting on his tongue as he spits them out – but he can't help it. It feels like it's being wrenched from within him. He's naked in every other way – these defences are all he has.

He hates it because he feels guilty. And he shouldn't feel guilty.

Should he?

"If it doesn't bother you, then why don't you ask me how many it was?"

He doesn't want to be asked this. He doesn't want to talk about it. But he can't stop the words that are vomiting up from his stomach.

"Go on. Ask me."

"Christian, don't…"

"I can't tell you how many," the sock he just pulled up is annoying him; he reaches down, tearing it away from his foot in frustration (or maybe it is just to do something with his fingers, to distract from the itch that's urging him to shove both hands in his mouth). "I lost count."

There. He's said it. No more dancing awkwardly around the issue like they have been these past few days; no more pretending that it hasn't happened, or avoiding the fact that its there and its real and the only way they can get through it is if they confront it.

At least now, he'll know whether Syed can deal with it.

Maybe that's why he's doing what he's doing. Maybe he's just pushing Syed as far as he can, to see whether he can be pushed away; and, if he can, then Christian knows whether or not he can kill himself fighting for what they have.

At a base level, he knows that it's stupid.

But, for Christian Clarke, attack has always been the best form of defence. It's how he's survived all these years.

"So, are you still okay with that?"

The silence is heavy; it weighs down on him, crushing him down, drowning him, smothering him until his brain is screaming for oxygen. He casts a quick glance towards Syed – his gaze is downcast, his jaw set, a slight tremble working its up from his spine.

Christian feels his heart sink.

It's like he's been winding the rope tighter and tighter, squeezing down on Syed as if he's forcing him to explode; deep down, he wants him to shatter. He wants to have out with this. Gentle petting won't get rid of the infection that's taken hold of everything that used to be – the only thing they can do is cut it open and let the poison out.

Only, lancing the wound is going to hurt.

"No," Christian can see the hurt in Syed's eyes; the anger that shines through, the glistening that catches at the edges and shimmers unbearably into Christian's consciousness. "I'm not okay with that. Are you happy now?"

"No, I'm not 'happy'," Christian snaps, tearing his eyes away from Syed. "How could I ever be 'happy' with that?"

"Then why did you ask me?"

"Because I'm tired of you pretending that everything is alright!" he puts his hands to his face, rubbing harshly across his lips as if he can wipe away the venom that's dribbling from his mouth. "When it's not alright. And it's never going to be alright if you keep pretending that there's nothing wrong."

"Who's pretending?" Syed shifts, somehow managing to move closer whilst bracing his body away from Christian; as if he's disgusted by him (or, at least, Christian's eyes tell him that that's the case). "I'm just trying to get us back on track before we start airing our dirty laundry."

"And I suppose, by 'dirty', you mean me, am I right?" he's looking at him again, hoping that the fire in his eyes burns Syed as much as it's burning him.

Syed's eyes narrow – it's like a challenge. Even if it isn't, Christian takes it.

"Well, it didn't take you long did it?" Syed scoots up the bed, resting his back against the headboard as he draws his knees to his chest; making it very clear that Christian isn't allowed to look, let alone touch. "I mean, what did it take you, a few days before you were hopping into someone else's bed? Am I that easily replaceable?"

"Don't be stupid, Syed."

"_I'm_ not the one being stupid," the words have barely left Syed's mouth and Christian is scoffing, a sarcastic smile twitching cruelly at his lips as he shakes his head.

"No, _you're_ just the one who did a back-pedal straight back into the closet the moment I wasn't here to keep you gay."

"I wasn't…" Syed stops and puts his head in his hands, as if he can scrub away whatever's going on behind his eyes. "I wasn't in the closet, it was a business deal."

"You had your wedding ring on."

"It didn't mean anything!"

"It means a damned sight more than all the stupid, mindless, drunken fucks I could ever have!" Christian is shouting now, the words smarting on his tongue as something else, something wetter and much less welcome, smarts in the corners of his eyes. "Because they didn't mean _anything_, Sy. Not one of them. Not a single, stupid, fucking _one_ of them!"

It's as if the outburst has ripped a hole in the bitter stoicism that has kept him going thus far; all the hurt and the pain and the sense of betrayal comes pouring out from his lungs in those few words, wrenching at his throat and bringing hot to tears to his eyes. He can feel the tears coursing down his cheeks – it makes him feel pathetic, but he can't fight it anymore, all the guilt and the anger and the want to forgive and the longing to be forgiven streaming from his eyes. He doesn't cry, not really, but the tears keep coming as though he's too full, as if it has to come out somehow otherwise he'll explode.

"It meant something to me," it's as if the sudden outburst as had the same effect on Syed, his voice small and quiet as he focuses his eyes down on his nervously twitching fingers. "It _means_ something to me."

Christian sighs, putting his head in hands – properly this time, completely hiding behind his fingers as he takes in the sadness that thrums through those words.

"I know," he breathes out slowly, acknowledging the tremor that is shaking every single exhalation.

"Because whether you were single, or not…" Syed keeps going, the words falling softly from his lips; it's the softness hurts so much, winding feathery guilt around Christian's heart. "…I could never see you like that. In my head…you were still mine, even though you weren't. And I will never be ready to share you."

Christian drops his hands and looks up: Syed's eyes are fixed on his face, the irises swimming in a film of water. It makes Christian's heart ache.

It's not the ache that had pushed forward the acidity of his previous outbursts. It's the ache of something else. The ache of what it will be like if he loses Syed, forever this time.

Because he wasn't happy. He was never happy, in those endless weeks without Syed. He'd tried to kid himself that he was, tried to kid himself that he'd moved on, but deep down he'd always known that those faceless bodies were just that…faceless, nothing, a brief distraction from the constant ache that thrummed through his body.

He'd also known that it was unhealthy. That he didn't really want it. That he shouldn't be doing it.

He'd just never wanted to admit that.

So he reaches out, tentatively, pressing his knuckles gently against Syed's chest. He expects the other man to pull away, but he stays still, letting the warmth and the gentle thump from his chest permeate through into Christian's skin.

"And I wasn't ready to share you," Christian whispers softly, slowly splaying out his fingers as if he can catch Syed's heart in the cage of his fingers. "What she was doing, Sy, I was losing you, and I couldn't bear it…and then seeing you with that ring, it was like I'd lost you forever and I couldn't deal with it. I just…"

Syed's hand suddenly cover his own, gripping around his fingers as if he can squeeze some of the sadness out through their skin. Christian closes his eyes momentarily, luxuriating in the touch that, for a split second, he genuinely felt he'd lost forever.

"We've both been stupid, haven't we?" he says softly, opening his eyes and looking directly at Syed; there's a moment when their gazes seem to dance together in the air, intertwining around each other in a mutual tango of guilt and sorrow and forgiveness. It's a moment that only lasts a second, but Christian can feel the power of it. It thrums through him, lifting him up from the pit of reluctant guilt and anger and bitterness that had burrowed its way into his heart.

"We have," Syed leans forward, pressing Christian's hand into his chest as he tilts their foreheads together. "And I'm so sorry, Christian, I am _so_ sorry."

It's the first time they've really said it. The words wash over Christian; it's a feeling he can't really describe, a mixture of elation and love and guilt, and he wants to say it back…he doesn't feel like he _has_ to, he _wants_ to say it, he's never wanted to say anything more in his entire life….

"And I'm sorry, too."

It's like a weight off his chest, the acknowledgement of his guilt, of his wrong; it cools the heavy throbbing that's been crushing down inside of him.

"Sy, I'm so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you and -" there's only one thing he can say, bubbling up from his heart like warm treacle "- I love you."

He feels, rather than hears, Syed repeating those words, the syllables thrumming through the air and snuggling deep into every inch of his flesh. It feels like coming home. It doesn't feel like the end, but it feels…good.

They stay there for some time – quiet, barely moving, their foreheads pressed together as their hands curl together against the skin of Syed's heart.

There's not much to say.

They're not thinking anymore.

They don't go any further. They don't want to. They don't have to.

It's…_nice_.

Eventually Christian pulls back; not so much as to break contact fully, but just enough so he can look Syed in the eye.

"So," there's an ease to his voice that wasn't there before, a confidence that isn't routed in any sort of façade – it's not back to normal, not by a long shot, but its getting there. "Are we going to wait?"

Syed pouts playfully – and Christian remembers how much he missed the playfulness.

"Do we have to?"

Christian laughs quietly, pressing his hand against Syed's chest in mock rebuke.

"Come on, you know it's for the best."

"I know," Syed sighs, lashing his tongue against his bottom lip as he strokes his thumb over the back of Christian's hand; the gentle touch at odds with the teasing fire in his eyes. "Depends how long you want to wait."

"I was thinking maybe waiting 'til the fourth date."

Syed, who has been leaning in comfortably, recoils in mock horror.

"Two."

"Three."

"Fine."

A smile creases Christian's features – he can feel it spreading warmth across his face, tickling the corners of his lips with a lightness that he'd forgotten he could feel. He squeezes Syed's hand.

"So, who's gonna get the big room?"

The thought of Syed moving back in his with his family isn't even something that crosses Christian's mind; now that they're here, together, there's no way either of them can put more than a single wall between them. This is their home. This is where they're going to stay. This is where they are going to stay and fight and rebuild the most important thing in the world to them.

"Well, you had it last night."

"And?"

"Fair's fair."

"How old are you?"

"Old enough," he'd also forgotten how much of a tiger Syed could be at the best of times – it was always the quiet ones, he thinks fondly, as Syed leans in to emphasise his words.

The easy banter that always follows an argument, soothing over the wounds.

_Oh god, he's missed this all so much. _

"Fine," he flicks gently at Syed's chest, his nail just grazing against his nipple; just because they've agreed to wait doesn't mean they have to be innocent, after all. "But, even if we're waiting, do I still get…?"

Syed leans in before he can finish, hooking his hand behind Christian's head as he pulls him in for a kiss. Their lips meet softly yet firmly, fitting together and moving against one another in a way that they haven't experienced since before everything went so wrong. Christian can't help but see this as the first kiss of their reunion; the kisses of earlier had been physical and quick and based on nothing but hunger but this, _this_, is something that's so much more than that.

This kiss is leading nowhere. And that gives it something…special. There is no agenda, no end game, no goal that they're trying to reach here. It's just a kiss.

It's just them.

They breakaway naturally, Christian's fingers brushing smoothly through Syed's hair before he moves away with a smile dancing on his lips.

" 'night."

The last time they slept in separate beds (just the night before, he realised with surprise – it seems so much longer than that), Christian had found himself crawling into Syed's room like a frightened child – his fear and his insecurity meaning that he couldn't sleep without the warm press of Syed's body against his chest.

He'd been so scared of losing him. He hadn't been able to spend a single second apart from him.

But, this time, Christian finds himself drifting softly into sleep the minute his head hits the pillow.

x  
>x<p>

**TBC...**

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><p>Thank you for reading. For chapters like this, more than any other, comments and reader responses are really appreciated - to know whether or not I caught the tone that feels right for the characters and the situation. However, if you'd rather stay lurking, then stay lurking - I love my lurkers, keep reading, and I hope you enjoyed this and enjoy what's to come!<p> 


	6. Chapter 5

**Title:**What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **I'm so sorry this one took so long! The last one was like an emotional punch in the gut to write - it really drained me, so to be fresh-faced and ready to rumble for this chapter I focused on some other things before coming back to this. The issues raised in the last chapter will be coming back, but, as I am trying to be as realistic and true to the characters as possible, they may not be addressed directly or immediately. I watched this whole storyline feeling equal exasperation and understanding and sympathy with both characters - I wanted to bang their heads together and hug them both at the same time. I found myself understanding where each character was coming from, but understanding and sympathising does not necessarily mean not being critical of what they have done. As such, this fiction will reflect that dual standpoint. It's why I'm taking the time to alternate viewpoints between chapters, because I think both boys deserve a fair shot at saying their piece, explaining where they came from, whilst, at the same time, acknowledging the respective wrongs they have committed. They have both been deeply hurt - and, conversely, they have both done things to hurt each other. And I don't feel any resolution can be come to until both sides of this have been addressed. Just a little ramble so you kind of understanding what position I'm writing this from, and what intentions I have for it's future :)

HUUUUUUUUGE thanks in capital letters to **Jenn **for her awesome super-dooper beta-ing skills of awsum.

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><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 5**

The steam curls up from the cup, licking gently along Syed's arm as he finishes pouring the water onto the coffee granules. As the noise of the kettle dies down, he becomes aware of the sound of gentle singing mingling with the frenetic patter of the shower; a tiny smile creeps onto his lips as he freezes, his whole world focusing in on faint notes that weave their way through the flat. It's quieter than he remembers it being, before everything went so wrong, but it's still there. Like a faint echo of the good thing that they somehow managed to ruin.

At the very least, it seems to suggest that Christian is more at ease than he's been these past few days. And that is enough to put Syed at ease.

That's the thing that has changed since the night of their first date – the night that became their first proper attempt at dealing, in a round about way, with everything that has happened in the past few months.

It could probably have taken place in a healthier setting, Syed knows that, but it happened. That's the important thing. It was the first step that they'd been avoiding – even if Christian did have to push him into it. And no matter how painful that pushing was, no matter how it smarted to dip his toes begrudgingly into the seething waters of all those guilty things they've said and done, he's glad it happened. After all, at least now the dance they're doing is slightly less on edge – there is no longer an unconfronted bleakness that haunts their every movement.

He's beginning to enjoy just being here, with Christian, again.

That, above all else, was the thing that he missed – the thing that he longed for even as he was telling himself that he was over it – the silent looks that say more than anything, the gentle touches that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with contact, the general aura of sharing a world and a life with the one person who can make that world and that life worthwhile…

"What have I warned you about thinking?"

Syed is snapped out of his reverie as the familiar timbre wraps itself around teasing words; there's a tiny smile on Christian's face as he moves into the kitchen area, a towel clinging snugly around his waist, droplet of water tracing glistening rivulets on his skin as he scrapes a hand through his dripping hair.

There's a moment's pause as Syed drinks him in, the steaming mug frozen between his fingers as his eyes traverse the length of Christian's body – and, in that moment, he begins to regret the agreement that they made those few nights ago.

As the days have gone by, it's grown steadily harder to honour that promise: the promise to start over, to do things properly, to keep their hands off each other (to a certain extent, of course) until they've been through the three date ritual that they never had the chance to do before. On the one hand, Syed knows, the restrictions they placed upon themselves have done wonders for the _talking_ aspect of their relationship – well, it's done wonders to ease the flow of the teasing, flirtatious banter, knowing that there is no end goal and ulterior motive to it - but, on the other, living together as a couple in all respects other than that…

"My face is up here," a hand reaches out, a finger catching under Syed's chin to gently pull his head up – tilting his face so that he can meet Christian's gaze. There's something in Christian's eyes that he can't quite place. It isn't the fact that there's a tentative waver in his movements and his speech – there is, but that's something they've both grown used to in each other during this process – but that there's something swimming in the sea of his eyes, floundering about just below the waves, too far immersed for Syed to be able to read it properly.

That's something else that he knows they need to work on. There was a time not so long ago when Christian had been able to read him like an open book, and vice versa. Although it is becoming easier for them to decipher the ticks and the tells and the movements and the looks that make up ninety-percent of their communication, fluency is still something they are struggling with.

"I can't help it," he smiles as Christian reaches out, plucking the mug from his hand and taking a cheeky sip of coffee – _that_ was coupley, and Syed loves every second of it. "You can't enforce a ban on sex and then rock up in a towel. Especially in the morning. It's not fair."

Suddenly, an idea strikes him. His smile transforms into a sly grin as he moves closer to Christian, eager for a share of the warmth that is emanating from his skin – eager to be as close as possible, eager to touch and feel and share the same breath, to make up for all those weeks apart.

"Tell you what," there's a cheeky tone hanging from each word as he splays his fingers out on Christian's chest, noting with some pleasure the way Christian's heart seems to jump suddenly beneath his palm. "How about we go out for lunch, and then we go out for dinner – added with the other night, that'd make three dates."

Instead of the response Syed was expecting, Christian hands the coffee back to him and pulls away, his eyes still speaking in a language that Syed simply cannot decipher. He feels frustration bubbling up within him; frustration at Christian for having that look in the first place, and frustration at himself for not being able to read the words that are banging against his brain.

"It's only two more dates," Christian said quietly, quirking an eyebrow in an admonishment that is part teasing and part sincere. "You've held out for a few nights, you don't think you can hold out for a bit more?"

"It's not that," Syed reached, sliding his fingers softly across Christian upper arm before tracing down the length to gently encircle his hand – it was something Christian usually did to him, an action that was so familiar that it felt odd to be the one acting it out. "It's just...we're living together, being together - it _feels_ like we're a couple again, a proper couple – yeah, we're one that needs some serious work, but we're still a couple. It just feels odd to have that but not have _that_ with you. Feels unnatural. Even when we didn't have anything else, that was the one thing we had…"

Christian looks down at their entwined hands as Syed trails off, sliding his thumb across the back of Syed's hand and refusing to meet his eyes. Syed's heart jumps into his mouth all of a sudden, an ugly feeling gripping him hard in the gut as something he hasn't thought before – or at least, a feeling he hasn't acknowledged before – floods his brain.

"I mean, you…you do…_want_ to, don't you?"

The words have barely left his mouth before Christian looks up, dropping Syed's hand as if the touch has burnt him. For a brief second, Syed's sinks into blackness as he feels every wayward suspicion confirmed – but then he feels a hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers teasing the wisps of hair that tickle his throat as he's drawn into a kiss that is both heated and tentative at the same time.

Syed closes his eyes and just lets the kiss happen – it feels good to be kissed without hesitancy, to know that Christian isn't over thinking whether or not they should be doing this. It also feels good to be kissed in way that's full of thought and feeling, rather than the blind, almost meaningless passion that they were sucked into a few nights ago. There's still a caution behind the kiss, but that uncertainty no longer informs it – if anything, it makes it all the sweeter.

As Christian breaks away, Syed grips his arm to keep him as close as possible – the remaining dampness on his skin clings to Syed's shirt, infusing the material with the defining smell of _him_.

"It's not that I don't want to," Christian whispers, his fingers still toying with the hair that brushes the nape of Syed's neck. "This is just something I have to do."

Syed bites his lip; content in the respect that he no longer doubts Christian, but burning with a curiosity he's not sure whether he should try to sate.

"Why?"

The fingers at his nape falter slightly, flattening out against the back of his neck.

"I just do. It's important," he flicks his eyes to Syed, meeting his gaze. "Is that okay?"

A reassuring smile dances across Syed's lips – he cups Christian's cheek, brushing their lips together in a quiet kiss before pulling back.

"I love you."

Christian exhales, as if he has been holding in a breath; the air catches at his lips, dragging them up in a grin as his fingers thread affectionately through Syed's hair.

"And I love you."

The sudden buzzing of Syed's phone interrupts the quiet bubble they've woven around themselves. He scrambles in his pocket, immediately bereft as Christian's heat moves away from him to rummage in the cupboards.

"Amira?" he can feel the air around Christian and himself stiffen as he says the name, barely listening to the chatter on the other end of the line as he watches his maybe-lover with worried, nervous eyes. "Yes…yes, I know…no, I haven't forgotten…I was just about to leave…okay, see you there…"

He ends the conversation as quickly as possible, flipping the phone shut and shoving it into his pocket as if he can bury away all the tension that the appearance of Amira has created in the air. Christian tears open the cereal packet with more force than is really necessary, sending a few pieces skittering along the worktop.

"Work?"

Syed nods.

"Yeah, we've got a meeting about the market stall," he takes a step closer to Christian, laying a hand on his arm and running his thumb in tiny circles across his elbow. "You okay?"

Christian looks up at him, the box freezing in the air as he focuses every ounce of his energy into returning the gaze. Syed can see in his eyes that he's not exactly happy – he's accepted the fact that Christian and Amira will never get on and, after everything, he certainly doesn't expect Christian to want anything to do with her - but there isn't that defeated bleakness, that utterly broken and exhausted look that he's grown tragically used to seeing in those eyes.

"I'm fine," he drops a quick peck on Syed's lips, as if sealing the reassurance. "You just come home to me, yeah?"

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," Syed kisses him one last time, squeezing his arm gently before breaking away to grab his bag and head out of the door.

Amira is waiting for him by the Vic, an indecipherable look on her face as she watches him head over from the house…the house she knows he's now sharing with Christian. Syed feels a rising sense of guilt in the pit of his stomach – whatever he does seems to hurt her, whatever decision he makes seems destined to do her wrong – but this is quickly replaced by the sense of utter rightness that has settled in his heart.

Yes, he knows that it can't be nice for her, and yes, he knows that he and Christian have a way to go before they are back to normal – but that doesn't change the fact that this, him and Christian, together, is the right thing. It's what he wants. It's the only way things could ever, or should ever, be. And the thought twitches his face into a bright smile, a contentedness that overtakes the guilt that's been hissing in his ear for such a long time.

"You look…" Amira's voice seems to get stuck as he approaches, as if the word 'happy' can't quite make it's way out of her throat; her arms are crossed over her chest as she looks him up and down, her eyes searing into him as if she wants to burn him up with the guilt of it all. She swallows, trying again, as if she's having to translate the situation in the only way that makes sense.

"Well, someone got lucky last night."

As she turns away, Syed feels himself bristle – it's not quite enough to drown the smile that still clings, limpet-like, to his lips – catching the insinuation that thrums through every syllable.

"Actually, no, I didn't."

She turns back at that, surprise clinging to her features.

"What?"

"I didn't," Syed lowers the bag from his shoulder and hooks it over his arm, vaguely conscious that he is creating a protective shield that covers his front. "We haven't, yet."

"Oh," the surprise turns to a look of triumph, a smugness that creases every inch of her beautiful face – twisting the prettiness of her features and turning them bitterly ugly. Syed wishes at that moment that he can somehow help her move on. Not only so that he can finally be free of the guilt, of the bitterness, and of the oppressive air, the air of hope that they may somehow, impossibly get together, that she projects whenever he spends time with her; but also because he wants the prettiness of her face to match her eyes once again.

But he shakes those feelings away; there was a reason he answered her truthfully, a reason that he decided it would be a good – and he uses the term loosely – idea to bring his and Christian's sex life so directly into the conversation. And it has everything to do with the look of smug triumph that clings to her face as she considers his words.

"We decided to wait," he says matter-of-factly – shifting the bag from one arm to another, whilst always keeping it hanging across his front. "You know, do things properly this time. We owe that to each other."

The triumphant glare morphs into one of confusion.

"I don't…"

"It's more than sex, Amira," it's blunt, but he's not doing it to hurt her – the longer she clings to the notion that it was only the sex, or lack thereof, that drew him away from her, the longer she will cling to the notion that somehow this can be rekindled. "Me and Christian. I'm not just with him because of the sex. I love him. I'm _in_ love with him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him – and that means I want to be with him even if we're old and grey and quite possibly impotent. You have to understand that. You do understand that, don't you?"

Amira looks as though she's been slapped; her whole body seems to recoil away from him, as if she can deflect what she's just heard. Syed feels a rising surge of guilt within him – he hates this, he hates this whole situation, but he knows that it is a necessary evil. She has to know this. He wants this, for Christian, for Amira and for himself.

Christian needs to know – and Amira needs to know.

For all of their sakes, he had to say it. She needs to understand. However much guilt he feels for the situation she is in, for the situation that he put her in, she'll be forever lost in this hopeless cycle of hope if he doesn't ensure that she knows: he loved her and loves her still, but he never was and never could be in love with her.

A lifetime with her had been endurable.

A lifetime with Christian didn't feel like enough time.

And that was the difference. That had always been the difference.

Only, he doesn't think he's been as clear about that in the past as he could have been.

He needs them both to know it now.

"Amira, you do understand?"

"Yes, of course, I'm not an idiot," she throws her hair behind her shoulder, as if she can throw away everything she has just heard. "Now, are we going to go to this meeting or not?"

As she turns away from him, striding away with defiant steps, he feels his heart sink – he very much doubts that she understands, and he's at a loss as to how much clearer he can be. It tears him up inside, this knowledge that he can't say anything clearly enough; that he can make himself heard, that he can't make himself understood, that whatever he says, however hard he tries, nothing he says will ever be enough to…

His phone suddenly vibrates in his pocket, jerking him out of the swirling spiral of despondency:

_How d'you fancy going for food tonight? Then a film and snuggling on the couch? We haven't done that in a while. Love you. xxx_

A smile creeps onto his face as he reads it, once, twice and then a third time, his eyes lapping up every word as if they are the most beautiful things he' ever seen.

Maybe he is getting through, somewhere.

x  
>x<p>

**TBC**

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><p>Thank you for reading! It's going to be a long road with steps forward and steps backward, but I think that's realistic. They will get there eventually! If you have any comments, please feel free to leave them, they really do help - if not, keep on reading, keep on reading *sings like Dory*<p> 


	7. Chapter 6

**Title:**What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **The issues that I'm facing whilst writing this are ones that, I like to think, the boys themselves are facing within the story - revisiting things that have been confronted, realising they are not as confronted as they need to be, wandering around in circles, repetition, etc. I am aware I am doing this, but I think this is natural for the situation (at least, I hope it is). I have realised that I can't just bring up an issue, have them face it, and then it's fixed. There are deeper issues at work here. So that's going to make this process longer than I originally intended. I hope, in the process, that I manage to keep these boys in character and that the situation and the story ring as true as possible.

Many, many millions of thanks to **Jenn** - not only did this chapter need a hell of a lot of editing for grammar/spelling/tense mistakes, but my conversations with her regarding plot are absolutely invaluable to the conception and creation of each chapter. It's so much more than just editing a written chapter, and I think you guys need to know that. You're a brilliant sounding board for ideas, my lovely, and our conversations have given birth to many of the directions that this fiction is heading. So thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 6**

Christian tightens his arm around Syed's shoulder, his fingers playing gently on the exposed skin of his upper arm – like a tentative pianist, skittering his fingers along the keys to produce the quietest, most tentative of melodies. Although the sound of the television ricochets around the tight space of the flat, Christian's whole world focuses in on the gentle _huff_ of breaths sliding in and out of Syed's chest; the rustling sound as he shifts further into Christian's chest; the _thumpa-thump_ of his heartbeat, so faint that Christian is sure he's imagining it…

Syed shuffles against him, wedging himself firmly between the couch and Christian's bulk. He fits perfectly in the crook of Christian's arm: the width of his limb fits snugly in the dip of Syed's neck, cushioned between the jut of his spin and gentle curve of his skull. It's a cheesy thought, but moments like this challenge Christian's firmly held view of the world – the view that nothing is decided or predestined – and urge him to consider the fact that nothing could feel so _right_ by chance.

Only, it's not totally right. The basic core is still right – even if they were living on opposite sides of the galaxy, Christian knows that it would still feel right – but there's something that's not quite as serene as it has been in the past.

No, the rightness is not something he's questioning. It's the ability to take that rightness and turn it into something they can work with; to make that broad rightness seep into every tiny nook and crevice and intricacy of their relationship.

As he brushes his thumb once again over the top of Syed's arm, he knows that this is something he wants more than anything, especially now that some of the tactile ease has begun to creep comfortably back in to the everyday workings of their relationship. A few days ago, they would not have been sitting like this – and now, although tentative, there are no warning bells going off on his head as he absorbs Syed's warmth, as Syed skitters gentle fingers along his upper thigh, as they meld against one another without really a second thought as to what they're doing…

"Christian?" his train of thought is broken as Syed's words - slightly slurred through fatigue and contentedness - smash through. No, that's not right. It's not smashing through;that suggests some sort of force. This is a quiet distraction, gently pulling him from his contemplation. He doesn't even want to dwell on why his brain immediately made such a violent connection to Syed's words – it worries him, and he tries to suppress it.

"Mmmm?" his hand stills on Syed's arm, fingers flattening out across the skin as he twists his face to the eyes that are now turned towards him.

"Are we counting this as a date?"

A tiny smile twitches at the corner of Christian's mouth, his gaze flicking momentarily to the remains of their half-hearted attempt at a romantic meal. The original plan had been to go out, but by the time they had made their way back after their respective days – he'd had some difficult clients, and working so closely with Amira had visibly taken its toll on Syed – all they'd been able to manage was a takeaway.

Christian had enjoyed it. It hadn't been fancy, but it had been one of those ridiculous situations that, in going so badly wrong, seemed to end up being so incredibly right. They'd never been particularly traditional, after all, and the extra privacy had seemed to make everything more easy – conversation came freely, their hands had gravitated towards each other with instinctively, and their legs had slotted together without a second of thought or analysis.

And there is something endlessly adorable – and heart-warming – about the image of Syed, rummaging through the cupboards to find a solitary candle for the middle of the table.

It just seemed to say so much. Christian can't put his finger on what it is exactly, but the specifics don't seem to matter all that much.

"There was a candle. I think that counts."

"Good," Syed flashes him a smile, the fingers that were innocently brushing against his leg skittering a little bit further up, his hand moulding around the shape of Christian's upper thigh. "Only I don't think I could have waited if this one didn't count."

All of sudden, Christian feels as though something heavy has been dropped into the pit of his stomach.

The ferocity of it knocks him away from any coherent thought, his whole world imploding in on itself – he can't initially explain why the change in mood is so sudden, why it has gripped him with a force that sends everything spinning off course.

And that frightens him.

His fingers jerk away from Syed's arm. He is barely in control of the action – he doesn't want to do it, but it's like his hand has gone into spasm.

It was a simple statement. It was a moment of flirtation, light-hearted banter; innuendo-laden, harmless and so absolutely and utterly familiar; something that is rooted in the very bedrock of their relationship, something that has always been there even in the days before they'd realised what that strange spark between them really meant.

It's not because he doesn't want Syed. He does; he always has; he always will. But it's like there's a little animal burrowing into his skull, drilling unwanted thoughts deeper, further, harder into his brain.

He doesn't know why it's affecting him in this way.

Actually, he knows that's a lie.

He knows what's going on. Only, thinking about what the issue is will force him to acknowledge it, and he doesn't want to do that.

"Christian," Syed shifts back, turning his whole body to face him; Christian can see concern in his eyes…and, suddenly, he doesn't want to see it. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," a smile forces its way onto Christian's lips, his arm curling around as if to draw Syed back into him – but Syed is having none of it. He moves up, curling one leg beneath him and resting his elbow on the back of the chair so his back is straight, staring directly into Christian's eyes.

"Don't say that."

Christian tries to turn his head, but Syed catches him under the chin, drawing his face around so that his whole world is drowned by the concern that shines softly in those big, brown eyes – Christian can feel himself floundering in them, suffocated beneath the weight of the care.

"I know you. I could see it in your eyes this morning. Tell me what's wrong. Please. Don't lie to me."

_What's wrong?_

If Christian was in a cynical mood, that question alone would have made him snort with laughter. What isn't wrong? Nothing is quite right anymore.

But Christian isn't in a cynical mood. As he looks into Syed's eyes, the love and affection he can see there tugs at his heart, dragging emotion up from the very depths of his soul. He hates this – he hates what they became, hates the fact that the communication broke down so very, very badly. He doesn't want to go back to that lonely world; living together, but apart, holding every emotion and feeling close to their chest (whether to avoid conflict or simply because they didn't trust the other to deal with it, Christian still isn't sure).

He wants Syed to understand him.

More importantly, he _wants_ to understand Syed.

Wasn't that the point of all those horrible things he said the other night? To somehow try and force them to face what they were refusing to face? At least, to tug some of the issues out into the open – whether they've been properly faced is a matter of contention. Christian is inclined to argue in the negative.

Yes, they were out there. Some of them. Not all of them.

They'd apologised.

They'd tried to understand.

But just how much have they actually dealt with?

And that _thing_, that horrible ominous _thing_ that was been drilling away for the past few days, gathers in his throat. The words come out garbled, quiet, a hurried mixture of guilt and sadness and _embarrassment_.

"I worry that you only want me for the sex."

Syed recoils as if he's been slapped - and Christian wants to die.

_Oh god, I didn't mean to hurt him_.

"How can you say that?"

"I don't mean…what I mean is…" there's no way that he can articulate what's flitting around his psyche; this odd, unwelcome insecurity that sends a red flush creeping up his neck.

Sex was always the one thing he _could _do. The one thing that raised no real questions between them. The one area where there was no contention.

And now, acknowledging that he, Christian Clarke – _Christian Clarke_ of all people – is having this issue…

"What _do_ you mean?"

Syed is still pulled away from him, hovering just out of Christian's reach – as if he doesn't want to touch, not yet, not until he works out whether or not Christian meant what he thinks he does. As if he's waiting for Christian to denounce everything that he's ever thought about their relationship.

"I mean…" Christian takes a breath, fighting the urge to reach out and pull Syed as close as he possibly can. "That the sex…the being gay…it was the only thing that stopped you loving Amira, the only thing that made you love _me_…"

Syed's eyes widen. It's not with the aghast horror that Christian saw just a few moments before, but with a deep, heart-rending, guilt-ridden dismay.

"Christian, you can't…"

"No."

Syed's mouth slams shut as if he's been punched in the gut, but Christian quickly moves to cover his hand with his own, settling their fingers gently together along the back of the sofa.

"Just…let me say it? Please? Before you say anything? If I don't say it now, I'll never say it."

There's a beat, a fragile moment as Syed glances towards their hands…and then he twists his wrist, turning his palm upwards so he can link their fingers together.

It's as if he's telling Christian he can go on.

So he does.

Or, at least, he tries to.

"You always said that you loved us both, and I worry that the only difference between us was the fact that you could have sex with me. If you'd have been able to…if you'd _wanted to_…have sex with her, then you wouldn't even have given me a second glance. If you'd been just a few points further down that stupid Kinsey scale, if you'd even crossed just the tiniest step into being straight or bi or I don't know what, then we wouldn't even be sitting here. The moment I left, it feels like you went straight back to her, you went back into that sham, with your wedding ring and the business and moving to Pakistan…and it's the thought that all it would have taken was the sex and then everything you ever said you feel about me you would have said about…"

He trails off. He knows that he isn't explaining this very well, but the twisted vine of emotion and feeling and sheer irrationality is impossible to untangle – he can't do it justice through the words, through the language, he can't force himself to articulate or even understand it. It seems to collide together in his brain, creating a supernova of noise and fear that forces his head down, his eyes closing defensively as if he can burrow away inside his own body; embarrassment courses through him, and all he wants to do is hide from the searching glance he can feel striking through every inch of his skin.

"I love you so much," he whispers softly. "You're the only person I've ever really been with where sex was anything more than…"

Fingers tighten around his hand, squeezing reassuringly as the words get lost somewhere in the air between them.

"Christian?"

He keeps his eyes trained down, barely hearing the words that cut through the silence.

"_Christian_."

Fingertips are at his chin again, pulling his face back up and moving to rest along the line of his jaw. Christian opens his eyes reluctantly, meeting the indecipherable sharpness that pierces through from Syed's irises.

"You can't think like that. You can't. I want you. I've always wanted you. I've never done anything that means you should think…" Syed stops, closing his eyes and swallowing hard, as though he can force what he was going to say back down his throat. "What I mean is, I _love _you. I am _in_ love with you. I was never in love with Amira, and even if I had been bisexual, even if I was attracted to women, even if I had been able to want her and have sex with her I would always, always, _always_ have fallen in love with you. I promise you that. I don't want anything else."

"I know – but it hurts, Sy, it hurts so much to think that it might be true," Christian leans into Syed's touch, seeking every last ounce of comfort from the contact.

"It's not true," a thumb brushes against the ridge of his cheekbone. "It will never be true. I would never have been in love with Amira, and I will never want anything else. I'm still here, aren't I? No matter how stupid we are, or what we've said, or how much we hurt each other, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere. You're worth so much more to me than what you think."

He leans forward, cupping Christian's face in his palm as he gives him the softest of kisses.

"I love you," the words are murmured against Christian's lips, and it's the feel of the vibrations (rather than the words themselves) that mean the most. "I just can't believe you don't…"

He does that thing again, cutting himself off half-sentence as if he's trying to hold everything - the words, the feelings, the _truth_ – somewhere deep within himself; shutting it away and throwing away the key.

Christian doesn't want that. He's spoken. He's done his bit.

Syed has listened. Syed has offered him that comfort.

This is the bit where Syed has his say.

This is part where _he_ offers comfort.

That's what's supposed to happen.

Christian wants to hear it. He wants it to happen. It's the only way he can assuage his own guilt – the only way he can acknowledge his own part in this – the only way they can overcome this.

But it never comes.

Instead, Syed moves backwards, gripping Christian's hand and dragging it back around his shoulders.

"We've missed the best bit," he mumbles, nuzzling his head into the side of Christian's chest as he grapples for the remote. His thumb finds the rewind button, pressing down with a firmness that really isn't necessary - and, as the picture begins to shoot backwards, the only thing that Christian can do is let his body mould back into shape around Syed's form.

What else can he do? He can't force Syed to say what he needs to say.

It has to be in his own time. He's prepared to take it, when Syed wants to give it. They can't force anything. He doesn't want to force anything.

But, as he watches the people on the screen jerking backwards unnaturally, he can't help but fear what an extended silence may bring.

x  
>x<br>**TBC **

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><p>Thank you for reading! Any comments you have regarding this fiction are welcomed and encouraged with open arms - if you're a lurker, the I hope it continues to meet your expectations and I hope you'll keep on lurking for the foreseeable future! Thank you again!<strong><br>**


	8. Chapter 7

**Title:**What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **This chapter was difficult for one main reason: I find it harder to get into Syed's psyche than I do to get into Christian's psyche. I love Syed, I just find him harder to write. Christian can be tough at times, but his internal monologue comes more naturally to me. Anyway, this is probably a good thing as it provides me with a challenge - and I always love a good challenge, me! I hope that this chapter sits right for Syed's character. It's a bit of a bumpy ride coming up, but I'm trying to make it as realistic as possible for the characters and, in the road forward, Chryed always were ones to take a few steps back every once in a while.

Many, many, many thanks to the lovely **Jenn **for betaing this fic. The issue we had this week was tenses - my brain kept wanting to write in the past tense in odd places, so thank you to you, my lovely, for heping me sort the pesky bugger out.

* * *

><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 7**

The sound of clattering in the kitchen tugs Syed from his sleep, his head jerking from the pillow as he struggles to fight through the confusing fog of unexpected consciousness. One hand reaches to the side of the bed, fingers searching for warm flesh – and instead they find the cold plaster of the wall that separates the second bedroom from the main bedroom.

Syed's hand falls limp beside him on the bed, a quiet huff of disappointment thrumming up from his lungs.

He'd stopped waking up expecting to find Christian next to him a few weeks after Christian walked out on him…no, since they broke up…he has to keep telling himself that, otherwise the hurt that remains unaddressed, the slice of pain that shoots through him as those feelings, that sense of betrayal as he watched the man he loved clamber into the taxi and drive away, are far too hard to ignore. He's been suppressing them ever since that moment they agreed to start again, and he's not about to start drawing them to the surface now.

He doesn't want that. He doesn't want to air them.

He wants them - he and Christian - to carry on down this tentative road; they've taken some steps on the slow journey back to what they once were, and he doesn't want to put that in jeopardy by airing the negative elements that are bubbling stoically away in the pit of his stomach.

Anyway – he pushes those thoughts aside, burrowing the awareness of those feelings somewhere deep down with the feelings themselves – the point is that it has been a while since Syed woke up expecting to find a sleeping Christian beside him.

But these last few days, ever since their second 'date' – he's been unable to stem the flow of disappointment as he once again finds himself waking up in a single bed.

Ever since Christian opened his heart and stood back, in silence, as if inviting him to open his own – and ever since he denied that invitation, deciding to remain closed and silent, ignoring the flutter of truth that the action ignited in his heart. It was the very next morning that he woke up and found himself forlorn at not having Christian's bulk in arm's reach.

But that must be a coincidence. He tells himself that that isn't the reason. He tells himself that it's the closeness of their third date, the ever-closing gap between him and Christian, the expectation of their relationship coming back to the point that he desperately wants it to be (and that's not just the sex, not just the physical act, but the sense that their relationship truly has returned to normal).

Yes, that's the reason. It has to be.

A cupboard door shuts with a _bang_, reverberating through the wall and forcing Syed into a seated position. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand; he can't decide whether he is trying to force wakefulness into his skull or, on the other hand, whether he's trying to force those unwanted feelings out of his mind.

A gentle humming comes from the kitchen as he swings his legs out of bed and tugs on his dressing gown – he draws the cord tightly around his waist, subconsciously cutting off all sight of his bare torso before venturing out towards the source of the noise.

Christian is just shovelling the final spoonfuls of a bowl of cereal into his mouth, his head bopping gently to the music that is filtering through his headphones – a tiny smile creases Syed's mouth as he watches, letting Christian's gentle, slightly-out-of-tune hum wash over him as he hovers tentatively at the edge of the room.

It's this, this _feeling_, that comes over him every time he watches Christian – this warm sense that floods each of his veins, wrapping his nerve-endings in a heated blanket as endorphins ricochet around the neurones in his brain – that spurs him to _not_ say those things that had almost come out the other night.

He doesn't want to hurt him. And he doesn't want to put this in jeopardy.

A part of him feels that, last time, it was _him_ that pushed Christian away – and he doesn't want to do that again. He doesn't want to put in danger what he has. He doesn't want to lose Christian. He can't. Not again.

The last time hurt too much. And he is willing to do whatever it takes to avoid that hurt again.

If that means staying silent, he'll stay silent.

Surely, he tells himself, forcing them into the kind of argument that he knows speaking out would create, is the unhealthiest thing he can do?

He isn't Christian. He doesn't believe in confrontation at all costs. And the last time Christian tried to force him to air his feelings, it almost led them to disaster – perhaps the overall outcome had been positive, but Syed is willing to wager that was more down to luck than anything else. One word either way and it could have been the end of all this.

Christian is reckless. Syed isn't.

He's not willing to put this in danger.

He won't.

And he tells himself he never will.

Syed forces himself to break through that train of thought, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping forward into Christian's line of sight. It takes a few moments for Christian to realise he is there, the little cocoon of music evidently blocking his awareness. Syed feels a little jerk in his stomach as he waits for Christian to notice him, an aching worry gnawing away inexplicably in his gut.

He realises that he wants Christian to turn to him, to smile and to offer him the reassurance that everything is fine, and normal, and nothing could possible be wrong in the world.

And the time it takes for Christian to turn around – no matter if it's a few seconds or a few minutes – is more time for him to worry that it _isn't_ and perhaps never will be again.

It's not long before Christian's eyes catch him in their glare, a smile curling at the corners of his lips as recognition fires in his irises. He pulls one wire from his ear, the _tsk-tsk-tsk_ of the music thrumming faintly in the air between them as he fixes Syed with a grin.

"You finally up, then?"

Christian's voice is like a balm on the still-open cut, stemming the flow of worry that seeps from the gash of unspoken feelings. He smiles back, taking another step forward so that he is brushing the edges of Christian's personal space.

"I've got a meeting with the suppliers after lunch," he leans casually against the worktop, watching every single twitch of muscle as Christian takes a final mouthful of cereal and puts the bowl in the sink. "You due at the gym?"

"Yep, got a couple of clients booked in today," Christian's hands hover for a few moments, as if he's considering whether or not he should try and disentangle Syed's tightened arms. "Then I thought I'd spend a few hours on myself. In the gym, I mean. It's been a while since I did that."

A different kind of uncertainty grips Syed's stomach at that: the image of Christian taking out his anger, with _him_, on a punch-bag rather than being open and honest about how he is feeling. After all, he thinks, isn't that what he's doing? Burying it away where Christian can't see it?

At least, where he thinks Christian can't see it.

Suddenly, Syed doesn't want Christian to go to the gym.

He knows, in his mind, that Christian is too honest a person (a fact that has, at times, been his downfall) to not at least give some outward expression of how he is feeling. Even when he relented and gave his blessings over Yasmin, the burning sense of betrayal, exclusion and disapproval had emanated from every single one of his pores.

No, if Christian had those feelings, then Syed is sure he'd be feeling the brunt of it.

But that doesn't stop him worrying.

The thought of it is enough to make him step forward, blocking Christian's path as he makes towards the door of the flat.

"Do you have to?" he takes another step, untangling one arm and letting his fingers rest comfortably on Christian's chest.

_It's comfortable_. That's a good sign.

It's evidence of how far they've come. Evidence of the fact that they can do this.

It's also evidence, Syed thinks, of how right he is in keeping it this way.

"I have to go to work, Sy," Christian rolls his eyes, reaching up as if he's about to push Syed playfully away – but there's also concern in his eyes, and his hand stills gently over Syed's fingers as if the truth is written in brail on his skin.

Christian wants to know what he's feeling. He wants to hear it. He wants to feel it.

And, suddenly, Syed wants to tell him.

_No_.

Syed tugs his hand away, as conspicuously as he can, refolding his arms across his chest. It's too much of a risk.

_I can't lose you_.

"No, I mean later," Syed smiles as best he can, hoping to deflect the now overwhelming worry in Christian's eyes. "You could come home and we can…"

"Talk?" there's something like cynicism in Christian's voice – it's sudden and it's sharp and it _hurts_. "About what, Sy?"

Syed swallows hard, licking his lips nervously as his arms tighten like a cord around his torso.

"I just meant that we should spend some more time together," he mutters softly, scuffing one foot against the ground and letting his gaze be distracted by the movement. "That's all I meant. Unless you don't want to."

A gentle finger suddenly hooks beneath his chin, drawing his face up slowly until his world is consumed by the worry-cynicism-exhaustion that burns in Christian's eyes.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Christian is close now, in his personal space, the heat from his body permeating through into every inch of Syed's skin. Syed can barely think through it, his body instinctively falling lax beneath the heady mix of touch and proximity. "Tell me what's wrong."

Something in Syed's brain tells him to fight against the touch, to walk away, to smile, to brush it off…

"Nothing."

…but he can't.

"Don't say that," there's something in Christian's eyes that's eerily reminiscent of disappointment, and it's _that_ more than anything that makes the first sparks of anger flare in Syed's brain. "Don't do that to me."

_I'm doing this for you_.

"I don't know what you mean."

"The other night, Sy – I said my bit, you answered me, but you didn't _say_ anything back. I let it go, then, and I've been letting it go since, but it's not right. You're not okay. I know that. I know you're not saying what you want to say, and it's not fair on you _or_ me. Why can't you just talk to me?"

Syed pulls back at that, a tiny laugh huffing between his lips as he moves away from the intoxicating power of Christian's closeness.

"I don't have anything to say. It's not important."

"It's important to me."

"It can't be," Syed shook his head, taking another step back until his spine knocks painfully against the cupboard. "Stop trying to force me to say something I don't want to say. I don't have anything to say. Can we drop it now? Why aren't you at work, you're supposed to be at work, can't you just go and…"

He turns around, reaching out blindly and knocking Christian's half-empty coffee mug onto the floor. A hiss of dismay whistles from his lungs – he throws himself into the clear up, dropping to his knees and clumsily piling the shattered fragments into the palm of his hand.

There's a rustling beside him, and a hand takes his; it steadies his movements, fingers gripping his wrist forcefully to stop him in his tracks.

"Yeah, Sy. You're _really_ okay."

Syed closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before something – blind rage, fear, panic, resentment that Christian can't stop _bloody_ prying – bubbles over and he tears his hand from the grip.

"I _was _okay," he snaps, shovelling the rest of the shards into his hand and jerking away towards the bin. "I was okay before you decided you had to stir. I was fine. You ruined that."

Christian's eyes flash.

"I'm just trying to be honest," he stands up, drawing himself above Syed – and that does nothing to abate the resentment churning in Syed's stomach.

"No, you just want me to say what you want to hear so you can argue against it – so you can prove to yourself that you really were right all along," he dumps the fragments of Christian's shattered mug into the bin with more force than is really necessary, the clattering sound thrumming ominously between them. "You care more about that than you do anything else. You care more about that than you care about us."

A sudden silence wraps itself around them as the last words leave his mouth. Christian's eyes lock with his, a strange mixture of emotions flitting across his gaze – they're too quick for Syed to catch, to frenetic for him to have any understanding of just what they mean. It's the first time in a good few days that he's been unable to read Christian.

And Christian can clearly read him. He's clearly managed to relearn that more quickly than Syed would ever have expected.

It frightens him, a little, that Christian can read him so well – because, sometimes, he's realised, he actually doesn't want to be read.

He wants to keep it to himself. It was working that way.

And now…

"I have to go to work," Christian mutters suddenly, breaking their locked gazes and taking a few powerful steps towards the door. His fingers grip the handle, wrenching it open decisively before affording Syed one single backwards glance.

"We'll talk about this when I get home."

But Syed doesn't want to talk.

He can't.

It terrifies him.

As the door slams shut, he falls back against the side; gripping the edge of the worktop as if his knees are about to buckle under him. Fear is snaking its way through his heart, constricting his chest until his whole body screams at him for some kind of release.

And, suddenly, the inevitability of it all hits him with a force that leaves him breathless.

Christian will make him talk.

And Syed knows what he will say.

And then Christian will argue. He always does. He'll try and defend himself, and then Syed will fight back, and then...

That'll be it. He's sure of it. There'll be no coming back from that.

It's all going to happen. There's no way he can stop it.

And there's one thought, just one assertion, that grips Syed mind; drowning out everything else in its wake as it takes over every single one of his senses…

_I can't do it_.

x

x

**TBC..**

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><p>I do <em>know<em> where this is going, I assure you. Thank you for reading, thank you for giving your time to this fic, and thank you for sticking with it through thick and thin (although, I guess it is what we Chryedians do best). If you have any comments then please leave them. If not, then keep on lurking, and, hopefully, keep on enjoying.


	9. Chapter 8

**Title:**What Lies Within Us  
><strong>Author:<strong> MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Follows directly on from the 6/01/2012 and chronicles what may have happened in the weeks they were offscreen.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - because it's Chryed and they're making up -_-

**Summary:** Christian and Syed love each other. But the unbreakable has been broken; and now they have to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and put them back together.

**A/N: **I'm not going to make a secret of the fact that this one was not fun. Christian's train of thought has wandered up and down some strange and probably slightly damaging routes in this chapter, but I want to stay true to character as much as possible. And everything that happened happened organically, as I feel it's a realistic path for this character's mind to take; as much as I can, I just shut my eyes and write, going for it, letting it flow without overly trying to think 'what would Christian do?' Because if I'm doing it right, it should just happen. And this chapter did. Even if it really got me in some places. But you have no idea just how _much_ I want these boys to solve these problems. The violence with which I typed some of this chapter may have done my keyboard permanent damage, and I sort of need it for upcoming essays.

**Additional Note:** With the last chapter, this fiction reached 50 reviews! I'm quite overwhelmed by the response to this. I hope I can meet your expectations with the remainder of the story.

Dedicated to **Jenn**: for betaing this fic through thick and thin, and for coping with my outbursts of 'OH MY GOD THIS FIC IS SO ANNOYING!'. My darling, you are fabulous.

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><p><strong>What Lies Within Us<strong>

_"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."_  
><em>- Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

**Chapter 8**

The sun is starting its slow descent below the horizon – the dull orange glow of the lamps is starting to take its place, a poor substitute for the light of the day. It's not that late, perhaps just after five in the afternoon, but there's not much light to be had in the middle of January.

It's quite fitting, actually, this early darkness that weaves its way throughout the still-bustling Square. It matches Christian's mood: there's life, but it's smothered in an eerie, wintery darkness.

In fact, the chill of the dark is physical. It wraps itself heavily around Christian's limbs as he hoists the sports bag further up onto his shoulder and holds his arms across his chest. Outwardly, it's an attempt to ward off the cold. Inwardly, it's an attempt to hold himself together as he nears the front door of his and Syed's flat.

He's been gone longer than he thought he would be, but he doesn't think that anyone can blame him for that. The bitterness of the confrontation this morning still stings in his throat, as if half-heartedly trying to wrench the nausea from his stomach; it's not strong enough to actually make him feel sick, but the mixture of unsolved problems and unaired feelings creates an uncomfortable churning sensation in his gut.

It's the sense of an argument having no real solution that's bothering him more than anything; they argued, but nothing was said, nothing was solved, nothing was aired that wasn't already known. He already knew that Syed had more to say – and Syed has now confirmed that – and Syed evidently knew that he wanted to hear it – and he's confirmed that – and they're no closer to moving on from that than they were three months ago.

No, that's a lie.

There is some hope – they know these feelings are here, and at least the presence of these feelings has been acknowledged, whether or not they've been confronted.

That, on its own, makes this situation a hell of a lot better than it was (before that fateful day in November when the cracks finally split wide open). There's some semblance of honesty here. And neither of them are denying that the problems are there. Perhaps, in that sense, the original break up was a good thing, as it forced them out of the defensive caves they had separately retreated to in those weeks before everything came to a head.

Christian keeps telling himself this as he works his way up the path to their front door, his fingers fumbling slightly with the keys before he manages to slot them into the lock.

They can do this.

He knows they can.

He just hopes that Syed will talk. He needs him to talk.

And he knows that that sounds selfish. It probably is. But he can't help it. The need to hear what Syed has to say is so strong that it feels like its twisting something inside him - wrenching and tearing and refusing to let him go until Syed speaks. It's important. Silence was what almost killed them before. They can't do that again.

Christian can never forgive himself unless he hears what Syed has to say. He can never get through the guilt that still poisons him unless he feels the sting of Syed's words, until he feels and accepts the verbal pain that he is due for the part he played. He knows that he has hurt Syed, as much as he himself has been hurt, but Syed is the only one who can offer him the forgiveness he seeks.

But first it needs to be acknowledged.

It is selfish.

He knows that.

But that doesn't make it a bad thing. Not if it does good in the end, surely?

The key finally catches in the lock, clicking into place and allowing him to finally barrel into the flat. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest in anticipation of the conversation – or argument – that he's sure is to come. After all, he did say that they would talk about _this_ when he got home; and if there was one thing Christian Clarke didn't do, it was lie.

He wants to talk. They have to. They can't not talk.

It will kill them again. Never again.

And so, as Christian goes shoulder first into the flat, he takes a depth breath and prepares himself for the fire that he's about to set on the dried kindling of their relationship.

But, whatever kindling may have been here when he left this morning, it's not here anymore.

The flat is empty.

He flits from room to room, feigning nonchalance, inventing jobs to excuse the frantic movements – _my coat needs to go in the cupboard; I think Syed left a mug in his room; that sounds like the tap has been left on_ - but his fists clench a little at his sides as he realises that the flat is completely uninhabited.

Syed isn't here.

He tries to subdue the panic that rises in his throat; swallowing back the acidic nausea that threatens to overtake his thoughts. After all, Syed isn't a prisoner, nor is he a housewife. He has a business – he had a meeting this afternoon, Christian hasn't forgotten that – he has a life, he probably has every reason to be out of the flat.

It's just…Christian has built himself up for the talking, for the words, for the closure that he hoped would come from tonight…

It's like something gnawing at his insides, the painful ache of unresolved issues and the sting of disappointment that he still doesn't know how to solve them. He was so _ready_ for the talking.

He doesn't know how long it will take him to build that up again. Now that it will be Syed walking through that door – and, with that knowledge, something in Christian's mind switches any control of the situation to Syed.

But that's not a bad thing. Syed should be control.

But Christian needs to feel that security – he can't wait for Syed, he can't handle avoiding the situation any longer…

_What am I talking about?_

_What is this fucked up power dynamic?_

_What am I _doing_?_

Christian collapses on the sofa, scrubbing his hands across his face as if he can expel every single one of the confusing, almost sceptic thoughts from his brain.

They were getting somewhere, godammit.

They _are _getting somewhere.

He can't have these thoughts. He trusts Syed. He trusts Syed to do the right thing.

He does.

He has to.

Dropping his hands from his face, he scrabbles for his phone and quickly punches out the number (so familiar to him, so normal, that it's like his fingers are performing a well choreographed dance across the keys). His feet twitch nervously against the floor as he puts the phone to his ear, willing Syed to pick up, to speak, to reassure him, to tell him that he's just being really, _really _stupid…

The phone rings out – Syed's voice replaced by the patronising tones of the woman asking him to leave a message.

Fuck a message. He doesn't know what to say.

He can't talk to a machine.

He cuts off the phone, taking a deep breath before trying again.

And again.

On the fourth try, he isn't even given the chance to leave a message – the call is cancelled after the second ring.

And that's when panic grips him with more force than he can resist.

He flings the phone against the wall. It shatters against the solid surface, breaking into jagged pieces of plastic and electronics that scatter themselves across the floor.

Immediately, he is filled with the desire to run to the sorry remains of his phone; to gather them in his palm and tenderly piece them back together.

Syed might ring. The phone needs to work. It has to. It _has_ to.

But something leaves him rooted to the sofa, something in between his brain and his spinal cords crumbling – he's motionless, weak, unable to move from his position. He wants to move, but he can't. There's a voice niggling at the base of his skull. It taunts him, laughs at him, cackling: _you couldn't fix it even if you tried…why are you bothering…you can't do it…you can't do it…you can't…_

In seconds Christian is on his feet, turning away from the shattered remains of what was formerly his phone.

'_Shut up_,' he hisses internally at the voice.

It's the voice that nipped at his ears in those last few weeks in October, the voice that sank its teeth in on his birthday, the voice that screamed and shouted in his ear when Syed said he didn't want to adopt – ripping and roaring and screeching and hissing and tearing at the inside of his skull until all he can do is lash out at anything nearby to try and get it to stop.

The voice that ruined everything.

The voice that he knows is _his_ voice.

And he hates it.

Casting one last glance backwards at the sorry shards that litter the carpet, Christian grabs at the door handle and propels himself out into the street.

He's not going to listen to the voice. Or the woman telling him to leave a message. Or that stupid voice that told him that the call had been ended.

He is only going to listen to Syed's voice this time.

He is.

If only he can find it.

He's already cleared the garden path as he hears the door slam shut behind him, breaking into a jog as he makes his way past the park and down towards the market. The remaining stallholders are just making their last sales of the day, drawing their coats around themselves to ward off the cold as they look towards home.

All of a sudden, the cold seems very real. He shivers, his bare arms prickling beneath the chill of the January air; he's forgotten his coat, and the mixture of cold and darkness presses down on him like a weight. The fake glow of the streetlights doesn't help – it's like a false glare, a blinding shot of fakery mocking the hope that's just about flickering inside of him.

There isn't one stallholder he doesn't ask. He jumps from one to the other, just as he leapt from room to room not that long ago – only, this time, he's not pretending that there's any reason other than looking for Syed. Finding Syed is all he wants to do. Only Syed's voice can make the voice in his head shut up. And he wants it to shut up. He needs it to. Before he starts believing it.

"Have you seen Syed?"

One way or another – a moment of thought, a quick look from side to side, a scratching of the head – he gets the same answer.

"Sorry mate."

"No."

"Not lately."

The woman who sells tatty shirts down at the end of the market remembers seeing him leaving the house at lunchtime – for his meeting, it must have been – but she hasn't seen him since. He probes further: how did he look, did he say anything, how, what, when…anything…please, anything…but she just shakes her head, worry in her eyes as he thanks her for her time and sprints back down the way he came.

In fact, they're all looking at him a little strangely. He's running around in the dark in the middle of January in just a t-shirt asking after a lost boyfriend – he's not really surprised, but there's a little part of him that is irked at their interest.

It's really not their business.

He doesn't want the world to know that he's lost Syed.

Not that he has lost Syed.

Because he hasn't.

Syed has not walked out on him.

He can't have.

Christian stops by the door of the Vic, propping one hand against the wall to steady himself – he's breathless, his throat scratching slightly as he drags oxygen down his windpipe. There a numb ache thrumming throughout his whole body, the adrenaline that drove his panicked search subsiding a little as he tries to gather thoughts.

He wonders, at that moment, if this is how Syed would have felt back in November, if he hadn't returned in time to see Christian throwing his bags into the taxi...if he'd returned a moment, a few minutes later than he had...a second, a moment, a few minutes after the taxi had driven away. If this is how it would have felt to come home to find the man you love gone, with no explanation. Luckily, he thinks now, Syed managed to catch him – but he still got in that taxi and left. No amount of goodbyes or apologies or justifications can change the fact that that's what he did.

God, he didn't want to. It had killed him. It had ripped out his own heart and thrown it beneath the grubby wheels of the taxi.

But he'd still done it.

He'd walked out; pushed Syed away before Syed could leave him.

There had always been that fear – lingering from the days when he'd feared Syed would never be his – that Syed would leave him eventually. It was an insecurity borne out of the pain of that first year, those months of a maybe-relationship, those months in which Christian had watched Syed sinking deeper into the life he could never be a part of. And those issues have never been solved. Them being together did not solve those issues. That terror remained - that the pull of family would be too strong for Syed; that, after everything, Christian was always destined to lose him to the tradition and culture that had, in Christian's mind, torn them apart for so long.

The fear that their miracle couldn't last forever because miracles bloody _don't…_

Someone walks out of the Vic, ignoring him completely but jolting him out of his stupor. He becomes aware of his surroundings; he shifts position, leaning casually against the wall as if he's totally meant to be there – relaxing, chilled, perfectly content to stay where he is…

…only, he's not.

Not really.

It's been a long time since someone walked out on him. Properly. All those painful moments during his affair with Syed don't count, because they were never truly _together_ then. It had hurt, but it didn't feel like _this_. It's never felt like this before.

It's a sense of abandonment that he's never felt before. An ache in his gut, a frantic worry mixed with just that little bit of hope that he might see Syed strolling up the street. It stings, and churns, and boils inside him, burning every last inch of his body – but no one can see it, no one can know, no one will ever _care_ because its not something that's there for other people to see.

It hurts.

Oh, God.

It must have hurt Syed so much.

_He_ must have hurt Syed so much.

And, even though he knows full well why he did it and that he'd _needed _to do it, all the justification in the world can't chase away the guilt that grips him as he realises that.

He remembers this morning: the slight panic that had flooded Syed's eyes at Christian's conviction that they had to talk. Had that been it? Had he pushed Syed away?

Pushed too far?

Chased him away?

But talking was the right thing, damn it. He knows that.

But…

_No_.

He stops himself midflow – pushing away from the wall frantically, as if he can leave those thoughts plastered to the concrete.

Syed has not walked away. There is no evidence of that. Just because he wasn't in the house – and dammit, Christian is not going to be the kind of person who gets paranoid every time his partner leaves the house, he refuses to become that person – does not mean anything. Anything at all.

What was it he was thinking earlier, about how he has to trust Syed?

Because that's so true. He has to trust him. He knows that his lack of trust was one of the many factors that led to their relationship breaking down – he wants to change it, to overcome it, but it is so deeply engrained on every single molecule of his being.

History prevails – and Christian has a history.

But he _has_ to change that.

He knows this.

His future with Syed depends on that.

And he so wants to have that future.

A feeling of conviction fills him, like someone has poured hot soup down a sickly throat. He lifts his shoulders, straightening his spine as he moves to support himself – a hope overtakes him, muffing the voice that still tries to shriek uncertainties in his ear.

He's jumped to a conclusion. He was worried, stressing; psyched up for what he thought was going to happen when he got home tonight, and, when that was thrown off kilter, he'd been at a loss for any kind of alternative plan. That was the issue. It has to be the issue.

Yes, he is sure of it.

He takes a step away from the wall, heading for home – to wait for the man he loves to come back to him, like he knows he will, like he trusts him to do – when a hand suddenly tugs at his arm, pulling him around.

And Christian sees someone he doesn't want to see.

"I heard you were looking for Syed."

Christian shrugs his arm away from Amira, pulling it back to himself and cradling it subconsciously against his chest. He can't really see her face – he isn't really looking – but he can feel something of her smug dislike, her distaste almost, rolling from her in waves. But it doesn't make him cross. It just makes himself feel very tired.

He's so tired of being hated.

"Look, Amira, I just want to go…"

"I know where he is."

That makes Christian look up. With hope. Or fear. He's not really sure.

"He came home," Amira crosses her arms, fixing him with a look that is part triumph and part something that Christian just can't put his finger on. "After our meeting today. He's back with his family. Back where he belongs. You pushed him away. I wouldn't worry - he'll probably thank you for it, later on."

And, with that, she turns – the last syllables hanging in the air like the final crack of a whip.

But Christian doesn't have anything to say to it.

He couldn't, even if he wanted to.

He can't.

How can he possibly talk when the voices in his head are screaming so loudly?

x  
>x<p>

**TBC**

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><p>*sighs*<br>Thank you for sticking with this. I do know where it's going, trust me on this - canon tells us they shall prevail, I'm just trying to realistically chronicle how they may have gotten to that point we saw on screen. If you have any comments, please leave them (I love to hear them), but if you don't, then I hope you keep reading and hopefully enjoying my work. I love you all! You have the patience of saints!


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